Further to Fly
by Nomad1
Summary: Ensemble. Some months into Bartlet's second term, things are not going smoothly...
1. I

**Further to Fly**

By Nomad  
July 2002

**Spoilers**: Let's say the first three seasons, just to be safe.  
**Disclaimer**: The characters and concepts used within belong to Aaron Sorkin; I'm just borrowing for non-profit purposes.

_There may come a time  
When you'll be tired  
Tired as a dream that wants to die  
And further to fly  
Further to fly_

- Further to Fly, Paul Simon

* * *

** I **

**MONDAY:**

"Good morning Toby, good morning Sam, good morning CJ. Josh." Leo gave his deputy a look.

"I sense I'm being singled out," Josh observed to the room at large.

"Eight o'clock, Josh?"

Josh nodded. "Yeah. See, I thought I was on time, but it turned out my watch was right."

"Well, I can see how that would be confusing for you," said Leo dryly.

"It's been wrong for like, three years now?" he explained. "So I know what time it's supposed to be. Except that Donna set it right when I left it on my desk. So I was aiming to arrive here at the wrong time, and it turned out to be the right time, so I didn't get here." He blinked for a moment. "Possibly."

"You couldn't have, I don't know, changed it yourself sometime over those three years?" CJ suggested.

"But that would have wasted valuable seconds of government time," Josh pointed out.

"Imagine that," said Leo sarcastically. He turned to CJ. "You got the word on the Tavestock investigation?"

She nodded. "Completely cleared of all wrong-doing, which we will be telling the press in this morning's briefing. Also probably spitting mad that we didn't come out in support - which we will not be."

"We can't afford the association," Josh said quickly. "Even if he was cleared, there's still suspicion hanging over him. We can't have the president dragged into Congressman Tavestock's financial dealings."

"Agreed." Leo nodded. "CJ?"

"The White House has every faith in the competence of the investigating team," she replied promptly. "If they found nothing..."

"No reason to suspect there's anything to be found," completely Toby.

"Tavestock's not gonna like that," spoke up Sam for the first time. He was slumped down in his chair, wearing the stressed frown that had been his perpetual expression ever since the too-brief jubilation of re-election.

"Tavestock can bite me," said Josh cheerfully.

"Want me to keep attention focused on the dinner party?" CJ asked.

"Good idea," agreed Leo. "Zoey and the First Lady'll both be in attendance, and God knows a little positive attention couldn't hurt." The others nodded emphatically. Getting Bartlet elected to his second term had been a scrape even tighter than the first, and they hadn't been awarded half the honeymoon period before it was back to being under attack from all sides. Political victories had been thin on the ground, and everyone was painfully aware of their popularity waning.

Leo looked to the two speechwriters. "How's that dinner speech going?"

"It's done," said Sam, at the same time as Toby spoke.

"We're making some adjustments."

Sam straightened up and gave him a disbelieving look. "I thought this was the final draft?"

"I want to make a few changes," Toby insisted. Leo gave them both a look.

"The president's gotta read this thing Thursday, guys."

"It'll be done," said Toby shortly.

"It's _already_ done," countered Sam.

"Whatever." Leo frowned. "I'm hearing some whispers on Friday's vote on the Healthcare Bill. I gotta say, I'm not optimistic."

"It'll go through, Leo," Josh insisted.

"I don't like it." Leo grimaced. "We're haemorrhaging support on all sides on this one, I don't see us getting those votes back."

"I can get 'em," Josh said firmly. Leo shrugged.

"The whip should be getting back to me later today, I'll see what we can rescue. We need this bill, and we need it bad, but I don't think it's gonna happen."

"It's a _good bill_, Leo," Josh emphasised, frustrated.

"And if we were running it by the Department of Common Sense, that might mean something," Leo shot back. "Unfortunately, we're trying to get it through the United States Congress, so let's not hold our breath, okay?"

"We need this victory, Leo," CJ reminded him.

"You think I don't know that?" he scowled. "The Republicans are scenting blood in the water, and they're coming after us with everything they've got. I want everybody's nose to the grindstone while we've still got a government to rescue. We lose our support this far in, the rest of our second term's so much fairy dust."

They all exchanged troubled glances. So much for any hope that things were going to be easier after re-election.

* * *

CJ stepped up to the podium with a practised stride. "Good morning, folks, how's it going? As I'm sure you're aware, the investigation into Congressman Alan Tavestock's financial affairs came to a conclusion yesterday. They found no evidence of any wrong-doing, and the Congressman has been cleared of any suspicion of fraud."

Predictably, the floor exploded with voices. "CJ! CJ!"

"Chris."

"What's the White House's opinion on the investigators' findings?"

Sometimes, CJ could shake her head over the things the press pool asked her. Were they desperately hoping for her to slip up, or did they honestly believe she _would_ answer with anything other than the obvious party line?

"The White House has every confidence in the competence of the investigating team, Chris. If they found no evidence of wrong-doing, we have no reason to suspect there was anything to be found."

A party line which conspicuously _failed_ to endorse the out-of-favour Congressman.

"CJ! CJ!"

Look for an old pro in the crowd, someone seasoned enough to not expect a real answer to the inevitable follow-up question.

"Derrick."

"Does the president have any comment on Congressman Tavestock's vindication?"

_Yes, because what the president_ really _wants to do when his popularity's at an all-time low is stand up in front of the American public and announce that Tavestock's rotten to the core, but too smart for us to catch._

"The president doesn't do Alan Tavestock's accounts for him, Derrick, so I'm not entirely sure what you're expecting him to bring to the table here. Although I'm sure if you asked nicely, he'd be willing to go over the numbers with you and explain it all in detail."

A rumble of amusement through the pressroom. Most of them had come face to face with the president's geekish love of all things connected to such thrilling fields as economics, finances and accountancy.

"So the president believes Congressman Tavestock is innocent of all the charges brought against him?" Erica, calling from the back.

_Nice try._

"The president reads the same reports you do, Erica. If the investigating team found no evidence-" The rest of the repeated line was buried in exasperated groans.

_Oh, come on, guys, what do you expect?_

Moving on. "Just a reminder that Congressman Lewis's Healthcare Bill goes to the floor for a vote on Friday morning. The main focus of the bill is to improve the standard and availability of affordable healthcare for children and for families in tight financial situations, particularly in sparsely populated rural areas-"

"CJ! Is it true that the bill's facing stiff opposition in the house?"

_Well, that was predictable._

"I think we can all agree that any rational, compassionate human being would find the terms of the bill more than reasonable. However, we're running it through Congress, so who knows?" CJ gave an exaggerated shrug, and quickly shifted topics again.

"Now, I can reveal that there's been a change to the guest list for Thursday's dinner party; Zoey Bartlet has been able to clear a gap in her very busy study schedule to attend."

That news drew a few genuine smiles from the crowd. The president's bright, perky youngest daughter had been a familiar figure during the administration's early years, but had been seen less and less frequently about the White House as she settled into the rhythms of college life and grew more independent.

From here on in, it was plain sailing; questions about dresses and main courses and seating arrangements. They might be an insult to her intelligence, but at least they were harmless, and in these days of near constant setbacks, CJ had learned to love nothing quite so much as a harmless question.

"The First Lady will also be returning for the party, and she and the president will be greeting the delegation at seven o'clock..."

* * *

"Ah, Leo." The president smiled amiably at his old friend's arrival. Then the expression curled into more of a smirk. "So - I hear Alan Tavestock is an upstanding example of humanity?"

"So I'm told," Leo agreed dryly.

"We're not making any comment?"

"We're letting his sterling record speak for itself."

"Oh, he'll love that," the president observed.

Leo grimaced. "The only good thing about the whole Tavestock affair is that it's taking the focus off Friday's Healthcare Bill."

"That bad?"

"That bad," he nodded.

The president sighed, and looked up at him sharply. "Any chance of a last minute rescue?"

Leo shook his head. "Josh is gonna twist some arms, but from where I'm standing, it looks like the fat lady's doing her vocal exercises."

"How many votes?"

"We'll have a nosecount later in the day, but I'm thinking we're down at least nine or ten, and I don't see us getting them back."

"People don't support a bill which does nothing but improve our country's standard of care for its children and the rural poor?" he asked, with a bitter twist to his mouth.

"Not when it's hunting season on the Bartlet administration, they don't."

"I won the election, Leo," the president insisted, with a near-childish pout of frustration. "The people voted me back in."

"The people have short memories, and they don't care about anything but the bills we pass."

"I'm trying to pass bills! It's Congress that frustrates them."

"Congress frustrates everybody. It's their main purpose in life."

His old friend gave him a baleful look. "Is it too late to push for a dictatorship?"

Leo gave an eloquent grin and changed the subject. "CJ's letting the press know Zoey'll be here for the thing on Thursday."

Predictably, the mention of his youngest daughter brightened the president's mood and brought a twinkle to his eye. "My baby girl's finishing college," he said, in tones of barely restrained amazement.

"Time flies when you're having fun," said Leo sardonically.

The president glared at him accusingly. "That was a moving moment of fatherly wonder you just trampled on, there."

"Sorry. I'm sure there'll be others."

"Yes, but you've spoiled them for me now. I'll never be able to savour another one in peace."

"I guess the weight of that knowledge is a pain I'll have to live with, sir."

"Get out."

Leo grinned and withdrew. For a moment his old friend's smile helped Jed's own to linger, but it soon faded.

Yes, time was flying, and all too quickly. He wasn't the young man he'd been when his eldest daughter had started college, or even the ageing but relatively robust governor who'd seen Ellie off to medical school. No, his age was ever-increasing, and these past few weeks it seemed to be all attacking him at once. Aches and pains and twinges and the terrible, crippling, ever-present fatigue.

Here he was, in his second term of government, and what had he accomplished? All too little, it felt sometimes, and the weight of his responsibility seemed to grow heavier by the day.


	2. II

** II **

"Josh."

Josh looked up as his assistant appeared in the doorway. "Donna. We've got a nosecount?"

Donna pulled a face. "We're eleven votes down."

Josh ran a hand through his messy hair, but nodded slowly. "Eleven. Okay. I can get eleven."

Donna looked sceptical. "Leo says it's a write-off."

"We need this victory, Donna," Josh said seriously.

"I'm not saying you don't, I'm saying you can't get it."

"I can get it."

"_Josh_-"

"I can get it!"

Donna gave him a small, quizzical smile. "Really?"

"Yeah!" His fierce affirmation did more to make her nervous than reassure her. It meant he was psyching himself up for a course of action he wasn't totally sure would work. After a moment, he sighed, and said more quietly "We really need this, Donna."

"Yeah."

He smiled briefly, then straightened up. "I need you to get on the phone and take the temperature of about two hundred Congressmen."

She gave him a look. "Did I mention it's coming up to my birthday?"

"It's next Friday," Josh pointed out.

"Yeah, and by the sound of it I'm gonna be on the phone 'til way past then."

"Well no, 'cuz the vote's in four days, so-"

"You really think you can rescue this, Josh?" she asked softly.

"Of course!" he insisted. "For I am Joshua Lyman, master tactician."

She smirked. "Nice modesty there, Joshua." But it was true; this kind of close-to-the-wire battle was what Josh did best. If this bill could be rescued, he was the man to do it.

"Get on that phone, woman!" he ordered, pointing.

"Would you like a list of acceptable birthday gifts?" she offered brightly.

"We're out of the skiing season," he pointed out.

"But a tropical holiday is redeemable all the year round."

"See how you manage to ask me for a lavish gift _and_ time off, all in one expensive package?"

"I'm economical like that," Donna nodded. "Or you could get me a new car. Fun _and_ practical."

"_Card_, Donna," Josh corrected. "It's traditional to give your assistant a birthday _card_."

"You don't get to be a master tactician by following the ignorant masses, Joshua."

"I can't afford to buy you a car, Donna," he objected. "I can't even afford to buy _me_ a car."

"I'm open to a variety of electrical goods," she offered. "Many of them available for under a thousand dollars."

"Get out."

"And you'd be surprised at the prices many state-of-the-art sound systems are going for these days-"

"Out."

She went to make the calls. And a list of possible birthday gifts.

* * *

Sam buried his face in the crook of his arm and wondered if he could get away with going to sleep. It was late, and it hardly seemed to matter if he was working or not - since everything he wrote, Toby immediately tore apart.

It was getting to the point where he couldn't be sure if it was him or Toby anymore. Was his boss hacking apart perfectly good drafts for no reason, or was he churning out complete and utter crap every time? He'd lost all ability to judge his own work.

He found it difficult to look at anything objectively, lately. It all seemed to blend together into one great big, sucking black hole of despair. Nothing ever went right, nothing they did served any purpose, and nothing ever changed. He was beginning to wonder why he bothered turning up to work at all.

To be ritually abused, apparently. Toby burst out of his office, eyes flashing as he brandished the latest draft on Thursday's after-dinner speech.

"What is it this time?" he groaned into the cloth of his shirt.

"Sam, this is not a speech!" Toby growled. "This is a collection of meaningless words jammed together."

"It's bad?" Sam surmised. He should probably care about that, shouldn't he? He was finding it surprisingly hard to.

"It's _bad_, Sam!" Toby agreed thunderously. "It's not even just bad - parts of it don't even make sense. There are actual parts of this speech which do not make sense! You are disregarding not just the rules of good writing, but the rules of grammar and sentence construction!"

"So I'm guessing it's a no on this draft, then?" Sam said sharply.

"Sam, what were you thinking when you wrote this? Were you thinking anything at all? Is your brain still connected to your writing hand?"

"Well, I don't know, Toby! Maybe I was thinking this is the _fifth_ time this week you've made me rewrite a stupid after-dinner speech, and it's not even Tuesday!"

Toby blinked at this uncharacteristic aggression from his deputy, but it wasn't in his nature to take someone else's shouting without giving it right back. "Obviously, if I keep making you rewrite the speech, then there's _something wrong with the ones you've written_!"

"Fine!" Sam threw his hands up. "Clearly, you should be the one writing this speech, since it's obviously beyond my capabilities. Seeing as it's, you know, an after-dinner speech, and God knows those are the pinnacle of the speech-writing art."

Sam fell silent for a long moment, and then rubbed his suddenly tired eyes. "I'm going home," he said, shaking his head. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and stomped out.

CJ or Josh might have stormed right after him, harangued him until they got some kind of response, but Toby just stared after him for a moment, then went back into his office.

* * *

"Gimme another beer."

Home, as it turned out, was a countertop in a dim but mercifully quiet bar. He was experimenting with the theory that getting drunk might make him feel better. So far, it wasn't working. Maybe something a little heavier than beer would turn the trick...

Somebody dropped onto the stool beside him. "Hey, can I get one of those too? Thanks."

He looked up to see a young blond man in a brown leather jacket smiling brightly at him. "Hey. You look like you need a friend."

Sam snorted into his beer. "Huh. Pity my friends can't see that."

"Oh boy." His new companion pulled a face. "I was thinking of buying you a drink, but it sounds like your problem might be out of my price range."

Sam smiled wryly and took a sip of his drink. "Unfortunately, I think it's out of mine as well."

"Got terminal cancer?"

"No."

"Going to jail?"

"Not so far as I know."

"Catch your other half in bed with multiple members of the New York Yankees baseball team?"

Sam couldn't help a small smile. "No."

"Then what's your problem, stranger?" asked the man beside him.

He shrugged. "Oh, you know. Generally contributing to the downfall of society and the destruction of a once great nation."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Wow. That's quite an achievement."

"Well, you know. I'm a politician," he explained. "And before that, I was a lawyer."

The other man reared back in his seat and made a quick warding gesture. "My God! You don't _look_ like the root of all evil."

"Looks can be deceptive."

"Mostly, you look like you're planning to get hammered."

"Well, okay, they're not always deceptive." Sam looked hopefully up at the bartender. "'Nother beer?"

"One here as well?" asked his companion. He looked sideways at Sam. "Mind if I keep you company while you're drowning your sorrows?"

Sam shrugged. "Well, hey, if you're into recreational depression. Sam Seaborn."

"Steven Radcliffe," offered the other guy, with a smile.


	3. III

** III **

**TUESDAY:**

Leo looked around at the gathered senior staff. They all looked tired and rumpled, Sam in particular. Rumour had filtered down through the assistant chain that Sam had stormed off in a huff the previous night. Leo couldn't exactly blame him; Toby had a real bug up his ass about the upcoming after-dinner speech, for reasons past understanding. Probably it was just the same frustration all of them were feeling right now. By the dishevelled look of him, Sam had spent the previous evening trying to bury his at the bottom of a pint glass.

That option, alas, was no longer available to him, no matter how seductive it sometimes seemed.

Leo rubbed his face, and sighed. "Yesterday's nosecount on Healthcare says we're still eleven down. Eleven votes, three days? It's not happening."

"I can make it happen," Josh insisted quickly. Toby shook his head.

"You can't buy this one, Josh. Don't throw away the last of our leverage going after a bill that's not gonna happen."

Josh met his boss's eyes. "I can get this one, Leo," he said earnestly. Asking to be heard. Pleading for a chance to try.

Leo didn't believe it would work - but it was more than he could stomach to quash that light of determination in these days when it was so hard to come by. "Okay, Josh. Do a number on this one. But if it's not happening, ease off the gas, okay?"

"Okay," Josh nodded, though Leo knew the warning was in vain. You'd have better luck dragging a bone from a rabid Alsatian than getting Josh to let go of a political fight once he'd latched onto it. Still, who knew? Maybe he really could pull it out of the fire. Leo himself had won his influence the hard way; willing party members into line with effort, experience, and sometimes sheer force of personality. Secretly, he was almost slightly in awe of his deputy's instinctual grasp of how to push political buttons. Joshua Lyman, when let off the leash, was a political force of nature; a whirlwind cutting through anyone and everyone in his path.

The real trick lay in making sure that whirlwind was pointed in the right direction.

"What do I tell the press?" asked CJ. Ah, yes, the perpetual question. As if running the country wasn't difficult enough without having to get audience approval while they did it.

"We're confident it'll go through," shrugged Josh easily. Sam snorted harshly, but said nothing.

"Not confident," said Toby.

"Hopeful?" supplied CJ.

"It'll still be a hell of a bump if we fall on our faces with this," Leo warned.

"We've gotta say something," CJ pointed out.

"Okay," Leo nodded. "We're hopeful that Congress can..." He gestured vaguely with a hand. "...See past..."

"Partisan lines and vote on the issues at hand," completed Toby.

CJ made a note on her piece of paper. "So we're pre-emptively blaming the Republicans?"

"Always a good plan," smirked Josh.

"Okay." Leo gave a dismissive wave. "Get out there, get me those votes."

* * *

CJ stepped up to the podium, and frowned as she noticed a number of the reporters turning around to hold a muttered conversation amongst themselves. "Okay, you're all talking and none of you are looking at me. What's going on?"

After a moment, Katie offered "Rick Maskey."

"He's not here?" CJ glanced across at the empty seat and frowned. Rick was a rising young star who prided himself on knowing the ins and outs of bills other reporters found too boring to mention, and he always had a couple of informed questions up his sleeve. It wasn't like him to miss a briefing, and it seemed doubly strange that no one had shown up to cover for him. "Anybody know what's happened to Rick?"

There was a flurry of shrugs and blank looks, some of them fairly concerned. Although the public envisioned political reporting as a cutthroat business and weren't far wrong, there was a still a certain spirit of comradeship between the competing reporters and even with CJ and her staff. They might be on different sides, but they were all in the same business, and it was hard to spend all your days seeing the same faces without getting to know them a little.

But the show must go on. CJ gave a theatrical shrug, and pulled out her usual weapon; humour. "Well, okay then, one of you is gonna have to let him copy your notes after class."

A short round of giggles, and then the real briefing began.

"CJ, is it true that the administration isn't expecting the Healthcare Bill to pass?"

"Well, Chris, I wouldn't say that. Obviously this is a hotly contested issue, and it's going to be a close call. However, we remain hopeful that Congress will be able to look beyond narrow partisan lines, and see this bill in the context of all the good it can bring about and the lives that will be saved."

"So you still believe the bill can pass?"

CJ rolled her eyes. "Yes, Chris, otherwise we'd give the Congressmen the morning off to go play racquetball. Now, on to Thursday's dinner party..."

Later, on the way out of the press room, Toby intercepted her. "We shouldn't have come down so strongly behind the Healthcare Bill," he warned her.

"What was I supposed to say?" CJ demanded, exasperated. "Well, Chris, we've been pimping this bill for the whole of the time it's been in development, but now that it looks like it's in trouble, we're gonna pretend we don't care?"

"The 'pimping' was a particularly nice touch," Toby observed, navigating around a random aide in the corridor.

"Josh said the bill's gonna pass, Toby," she reminded him.

"Josh has been wrong before," Toby said glumly. "Often loudly."

"If he said he can pass it, he can pass it," CJ insisted. Yes, Josh had his share of screw-ups - and a healthy slice of everyone else's share of screw-ups on top of that - but this kind of political strategy was his game. And besides, they were due a victory after all the body-blows they'd taken lately.

Weren't they?

"If this doesn't pass..."

"I know what it means if this doesn't pass, Toby," she said irritably.

He spelt it out anyway. "If this doesn't pass, the president's gonna be embarrassed. He's gonna lose face. And we can probably kiss goodbye any chance we have of making the next three years count for anything."

* * *

Josh headed towards his office, and paused as he registered Donna, looking unusually flustered, arguing into the phone.

"Mom- Mom, I don't- Mom..." She looked up, and met Josh's eyes. "Okay, I'm hanging up now, mom," she informed the phone. "Goodbye."

Josh approached, grinning. "My powers of deduction inform me that you were talking to your mother."

"You amaze me," she said dryly.

"It's all part of my magic. What was all that about?"

Donna looked pained. "She wants me to come home for my birthday."

"Well, you can't."

She glared at him. "Yeah, and until four seconds ago, I didn't want to. Now, though, I'm beginning to see the delights of a four day weekend spent listening to all the reasons I should be married to Mike and Derek."

"Your mother wants you to be married to two guys?" Josh asked.

"They're my brothers-in-law," Donna clarified.

"Won't your sisters object?"

"Josh."

"I'm just sayin', I realise you're from backwater Wisconsin, but in civilised parts of the world-"

"My mother thinks I should marry a guy just like the ones my sisters married."

Josh smirked knowingly. "Wisconsin gomers?"

"_Republican_ Wisconsin gomers," Donna nodded heavily.

"Ouch," he sympathised.

"Republican Wisconsin gomers who have nice steady jobs so their wives can stay at home and look after the kids. And cook." Donna curled her lip disgustedly.

"And bring people coffee?" he added.

"Exactly."

Josh frowned. "Are you sure you're not adopted?"

"I've given it some thought," Donna said wryly.

"Members of your family have married Republicans?" he queried worriedly.

"Members of my family _are_ Republicans. In fact, they all are. They're very disappointed in me."

"Well, this is sobering news. You know, you never mentioned this when I hired you."

"Josh, it's not contagious."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that. It has to spread somehow. There can't be that many crazy people in the world."

"Josh."

"What?" He shrugged innocently. "Donna, are your family Republicans?"

"Yes."

"And would you categorise them as crazy?"

"Well, yes," she admitted. "But it has nothing to do with their political affiliation."

"Okay, the theory has some gaps," Josh admitted. "After all, you're a Democrat. Maybe insanity is just hereditary in your family."

"It's good to know you're going to be your usual sweet and charming self for this upcoming birthday," she observed.

He grinned widely at her. "It's who I am."

"You can say that again." She rolled her eyes, then brightened. "Would you like to see my new, revised birthday list?"

"No, I'd like to see a new, revised list of all the Congressmen who owe me favours."

"Oh, that's easy," Donna shrugged. "Would you like them on individual index cards, or both on the same card?"

"Very funny."

"And accurate with it - the mark of a true stand-up comic."

"Well, it's good to know you'll have a second career lined up for when I fire you." Josh glared at her.

"Is that gonna be my birthday present? 'Cuz what with the being away from you and everything, I could definitely see how it's a good thing-"

"Donna. Congressmen."

"Okay." She headed out, and Josh's smile faded as he contemplated the huge pile of file folders set before him.

Donna stuck her head back in. "By the way, if my mother calls, I've moved to Zihuatanejo."

Josh blinked at her. "Isn't it your job to answer the phones?"

"Technically, yes," she allowed. "But today I will be hiding under the desk and whimpering quietly."

"Okay."

"Okay." She nodded and left.


	4. IV

** IV **

"CJ." Leo looked up, but held up a finger to forestall the hovering press secretary as he listened to the phone cradled against his neck. "Okay. Okay, Jim. Thank you." He hung up.

"What's happening?" asked CJ, with an inquisitive eyebrow.

Leo grimaced. "Hostage situation."

"Where?"

"Downtown."

"_Here_ downtown?" Her eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah. From what we can gather, it's a single gunman holed up in a gym."

"A gym?"

"Yeah. Apparently he's been there since quite early this morning. Odds are good he's got a couple of Congressmen in there."

CJ winced. "What's he after? Lower membership fees?"

Leo shrugged. "There's been no contact with the guy inside so far. No demands, and we're not too sure of the condition of the hostages."

CJ rubbed her forehead gingerly. "Leo, any chance this guy belongs to some kind of fringe group, or-?"

"Cops on the scene don't think this guy's a terrorist. He's operating alone, and if he's got pre-planned demands, he's taking his own sweet time issuing them. Until we hear different, we're working under the assumption that he's just-"

"Your average, everyday nut," CJ completed.

"Yeah."

"Strangely, I feel less than reassured."

"Uh-huh," he nodded. "Press have already got wind of it, so you might as well keep 'em informed. Carol should be getting the details through any minute."

"Okay. Thanks." CJ headed back to her office with a heavy sigh. So much for the morning she'd planned keeping a close eye on Josh's vote-grabbing machinations.

* * *

"Charlie, has he got a minute?" Charlie looked up at Leo's approach.

"Uh, yeah, sure, he's got a ten-minute gap before his next meeting." He stuck his head in the Oval Office door, and frowned a little as he saw the president slumped down in his chair. He looked tired; not at all uncommon these days. Still, attempting to suggest he get more rest wouldn't get him anything more than a presidential sulking session. "Mr. President? Leo."

"Thank you, Charlie." It was impossible to miss the way the president winced as he pushed himself to his feet.

"Sir, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He waved his young aide's concern away, even as he absent-mindedly rubbed his back. "Just a little stiff."

"Would you like me to get your back pills for you, sir, or-?"

"I'm fine, Charlie," he insisted a little more firmly. Largely unconvinced, Charlie withdrew, and Leo took his place in the doorway.

"Ah, Leo. What's up?" It didn't take a Nobel Prize winner to read the lines of concern in the Chief of Staff's face - not that Leo ever exhibited much else.

"We got a hostage situation in a gym downtown. Kid with a pistol's got the place sealed off - we think he's got a couple of Congressmen in there with him."

"Ah, hell." The president rubbed his face. "Politically motivated?"

Leo could only shrug. "He hasn't released any demands so far. Doesn't look like he's affiliated with any kind of terrorist group, but-"

"That doesn't mean he doesn't have a grudge against - who knows? The latest tax hike on tobacco sales," the president completed.

"Yeah."

"The press?"

Leo pulled a face. "Odds are they already know. CJ's gonna put it out in the briefing - better that than get a question out of left-field."

"Okay." The president nodded. "What about Healthcare? We're putting our weight behind it?"

Leo shrugged. "Josh says he can drag it through. We're playing it 'cautiously optimistic', not beating the drums, but still..."

"We'll take a hit if it doesn't go through." It wasn't really a question; the Healthcare Bill was the latest in a depressingly long line of political manoeuvres that had just refused to go right for them. Ever since the frighteningly narrow margins of reelection, getting any legislation passed had been a political nightmare.

"We're bleeding credibility, and there are a hell of a lot of sharks circling right now," Leo agreed. The president shot him a look.

"Well, thanks for comparing me to a harpooned whale, there, Leo."

Leo said nothing, but managed to flavour the ensuing silence with a well-placed smirk. The president pointed a warning finger at him. "And don't think I can't see you trying to find a way to work the word 'blubber' into the conversation."

Leo's grin widened. "Wouldn't dream of it, Mr. President."

"Get out."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

"Donna!"

Donna spun around in her chair, and launched a file folder through the open office door into Josh's lap before swivelling back to the computer.

"Ow." There was a blessed moment of silence while Josh rifled through its pages, then- "Donna! I need-"

Another folder zipped through the air the way of the first. Donna extended her feet to brake the spinning chair, barely missing a beat in her typing.

The phone suddenly started to bleat. Josh leapt to his feet and stuck his head through the doorway urgently. "Wooden, Zantowsky, Reeseman, I'll take. O'Bannon, LeBrandt, Burns, I'll call back. If it's Tavestock, I've left the country."

Donna gave him a distracted nod and cradled the telephone against her cheek. "Josh Lyman's office. Yes. Okay. Thank you. Mmm-hmm. Yes, I'll tell him." She spun to give Josh a quiet thumbs up, and he pumped his fists in a ridiculously macho victory pose. "Thank you." Donna put the phone down.

"Zantowsky?" he asked hopefully.

"Kendall."

"Kendall? I didn't even _call_ Kendall. That's seven!" He battered the back of her chair with his hands in a quick victory tattoo. "We're gonna get this, Donna. Get on the phone to Brays, Bradley, Peterson, Hendricks, Gaveney, Juliard- oh, and I'm gonna need the file on 704, and the Heathers farming subsidies initiative." He clicked his fingers. "Oh, and-"

Donna stood up, and glared at him. "Okay, that's it. I'm declaring lunch."

He blinked at her. "You're what?"

"Declaring lunch." She pointed at the floor, and drew an invisible circle around herself in the air. "See this? This section of the room is now on lunch break."

"You can't take lunch," Josh objected, pouting.

"Actually, I can. You're legally obligated to provide me with it."

"I have to make you lunch?"

"No, 'cuz that would probably kill me. You're just not allowed to prevent me from getting it."

"It's not your lunch hour."

"Oh, that's right." Donna put her hands on her hips. "I do believe my lunch hour is, in fact, two and a half hours ago."

"_Donna_." He tried it on with the 'look at me, I'm overworking myself' puppy-dog eyes. "We really don't have much time on this."

Donna softened, but refused to give in. "I know that, Josh. But trust me, this is more efficient."

"How?" he demanded.

"From a point of view of; if I kill you, the chances of you talking anybody else into voting our way are pretty slim."

"You know, I'm fairly sure we can have you taken out and shot for threatening the life of a superior."

"Josh, we're not in the navy."

"No, 'cuz if we were in the navy, you'd have to do what I say. Plus, you'd be wearing a uniform, and one of those cute little hats."

Donna snorted. "Hats, Josh?"

He waved a hand vaguely. "You know. Those hats. That navy people wear. Unless they're army people."

She gave him a look. "I'm going, Josh." She grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair and turned away.

"Twelve minutes!" he called after her.

"It's my birthday!" she objected.

"Your birthday period extends over the two weeks before the anniversary of your birth?"

"And two weeks after. 'Cuz I'm special like that."

Josh grinned. "And does this period of celebration have a name? Donnataleia, perhaps?"

She pointed an accusing finger at him. "Don't mock the birthday, Josh."

He looked innocent. "Wouldn't dream of it. So tell me, is there anything special I should be doing to mark this period of festivity?"

"You could bow down and worship me every morning and evening," Donna suggested.

Josh gave her his best dazzling smile. "I do that already."

It was impossible not to grin back - but she was nobody's fool. "I'm still taking a half hour, Josh."

"Dammit." He pouted, then went back into his office.


	5. V

** V **

"Hey, Sam." Donna slid into the seat across from the speechwriter, balancing her lunch tray with a practised grace. Sam barely looked up from the draft he was scribbling over.

"Hey, Donna."

She noted with both sympathy and amusement that there seemed to be more penned amendments to the text than there was actual text. "Writer's block?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders, as much a tired stretching-exercise as a statement. "It's the speech for the thing on Thursday," he elaborated.

"Still?" Donna frowned. "What's wrong with it?"

Sam looked up to meet her eyes, and shrugged again. He pulled a face as if he didn't know whether to laugh or jump off the nearest high building. "I honestly have no idea."

"It's one of those, is it?" Donna sympathised, taking a bite of her sandwich.

He shook his head helplessly. "I don't know what it is. I didn't see anything wrong with it, but Toby kept tweaking things, and I edited it, and then I edited it some more, and now I think somewhere along the line I've lost my ability to read."

"Relax, Sam," she reassured him. "It's only an after-dinner speech."

"Toby thinks it's the Gettysburg address." Sam sighed, and ran a hand through his already rumpled hair. "I honestly don't know why he's got such a bug up his ass about this."

"Because he's Toby?" she suggested, not entirely joking.

"It's just..." Sam waved his hands helplessly. "It's so _pointless_. He's getting so worked up about this, and all I can think is it's not even important! It doesn't matter how good the speech is, because it's not gonna make anything happen. It's not gonna change anything." He sighed, and his voice dropped. "I sometimes wonder if we're ever gonna change anything."

Donna put her sandwich down, and patted him gently on the arm. "We change things, Sam," she insisted, with a tentative smile. "I mean, look at this Healthcare Bill. Josh's running round like Godzilla on a rampage, stomping Congressmen into shape... we change things."

"Yeah." Sam leaned back in his chair, and sighed again. "Josh is out there, making things happen. What am I doing? Sitting in the mess-hall, drafting and redrafting a completely inconsequential speech."

Donna offered him a smile of commiseration, and hurriedly finished up the rest of her sandwich before Josh could come charging down the hallways looking for her.

* * *

"Hey, Toby." CJ had known the Communications Director for long enough that she didn't need to look up to recognise his silent presence in the doorway.

"We've got word back on the hostage situation."

CJ looked up and slid her glasses off. "They resolved it?" she guessed optimistically. Toby shook his head.

"No. But they ID'd the guy. He's a political aide who used to work for Congressman Whittaker. I'm guessing he had some sort of issue with his severance package."

"Whittaker's one of the hostages?" CJ surmised, and Toby nodded. "How many others? Do we know who they are?"

Toby shrugged. "They're working on that now."

"Great." CJ grimaced, but tried to look on the bright side. "At least we know he's not a terrorist."

"At least this'll stop the Healthcare Bill dominating the news cycle," Toby said gloomily.

"We should trust Josh," CJ insisted, "he knows what he's doing." Toby only shrugged grumpily. The Communication Director's demeanour, never very far above morose at the best of times, had been completely unreasonable of late. Ginger had taken to issuing the bullpen a daily Toby Report, warning them whether to expect to be thundered at, given the cold shoulder, or have their parade rained on.

"You should stop riding Sam about this speech on Thursday," CJ advised. Toby glowered.

"Sam's a grown-up."

"So you should start treating him like one. He doesn't get paid to have you shouting at him every four seconds, Toby."

"He gets paid to write speeches," Toby said. "Which he is doing, if only in the sense that he is putting words onto paper which could, theoretically, be read out loud."

CJ sighed and rubbed her neck. "Toby..." She trailed off. "We're all under pressure, okay? Don't take it out on Sam."

Toby looked as if he wanted to say more, but just nodded and walked out.

* * *

"Hey, baby." Jed felt his mood lighten even as he lifted the phone. His wife's throaty laugh echoed down the telephone line, and he ached from wishing she could be with him.

"Do you always answer your phone that way?" she teased.

"Always," he rumbled, unable to keep the longing from soaking into his voice.

"I could have been delayed," she laughed. "It might have been Senator Rogers, calling about the assault weapons thing."

"Ah, he'd let me call him anything I liked if he thought I'd be willing to relax the restrictions," he shrugged it off. Listening to Abbey's laugh over the phone line was a poor substitute for the real thing, but it still raised the same thrill of gooseflesh he'd got the first time ever he heard it. "I miss you," he said quietly.

"I miss you too," she admitted, the laughter fading.

"I'm counting the days," Jed told her.

That made her laugh again. "Two days, Jed. I bet that's a real challenge to all that math you took in college."

"The days are longer when you're not here."

"Josiah Bartlet, did you just use a line on me?"

Busted. He hedged "Maybe. But I meant it."

"Thursday night, Jed. It's only Thursday night."

"That's forever away," he sighed.

"I know, I know." He could picture her smile as she changed the subject. "Zoey'll be there."

"Yeah." He started to smile himself. "Our little girl - who, I might add, despite living barely a hairsbreadth away, might as well have disappeared off the face of the planet."

"College girls, Jed," Abbey chided him. "She's growing up, she doesn't have time to come running every time her daddy claps his hands anymore."

"Studying, ha," Jed shrugged. "She doesn't need to study, she'll get As. All my girls get As."

"Not just the studying," Abbey jibed gently. "She's got to fit in the raves, the orgies, the all-night-keggers..." She dissolved into giggles at his disgruntled huff of air. "You can't keep them in a box forever, Jed."

"On the contrary, I know of several good nunneries in the DC area-"

"Seriously, though-"

"Oh, you think I'm not serious?" he interjected.

"Seriously, Jed, has she spoken to you about what she wants to do after college?"

"No," he said, a little sombrely. All joking aside, it pained him how little he saw of his youngest daughter these days. He adored all his daughters, but Zoey had always been the one who was most like him, and she'd been a tiny shadow following his footsteps since the day she was old enough to toddle after him. "I haven't really spoken to her at all lately. She's always rushing off, or I'm always rushing off."

Abbey sighed. "Well, we'll see her Thursday. All three of us together, think of that."

"It'll be like Christmas," he said, but it came out as something deeper than the light-hearted quip he'd intended. It really did seem like they only gathered the family together during the holiday season.

Of course, his wife read his mood as easily as she always did. "Everybody's kids grow up, Jed," she said gently.

"Yes, but not everybody's the President of the United States while they're doing it." He winced at the way the words slurred together; he had trouble with his sibilants when he was exhausted.

Naturally, Abbey picked that up, too. "You're slurring your words, Jed," she said worriedly.

"I'm very tired," he admitted, a yawn escaping to accent the words.

"Get some rest," she ordered.

"Not much chance of that," he told her wryly. "We've got a hostage situation in a gym downtown, Josh is setting the building on fire to roast a couple of Congressmen..."

"Nevertheless, you're going to get some rest." She had her doctor voice on, one he knew better than to argue with even if she didn't have the licence to back it up anymore. A few years ago he'd have called her Dr. Bartlet and teased her about it, but though that sore spot was no longer fresh, it was still a bad idea to poke at it.

"I'll try," he promised.

"Okay. I've got to go now."

"Yeah. So have I."

But they both held on, like teenagers reluctant to give up the family phone even though their parents were pointedly tapping the phone bill and glaring.

"I love you," said Abbey, finally.

"I love you. Bye."

"Bye."

He replaced the phone in its cradle and straightened up, revitalised and filled with the energy that came from contact with his better half. But, as always, the boost faded away all too quickly.

* * *

CJ strode confidently up to the podium. "Okay, folks, I've got a little more for you on the situation downtown. I can now tell you that the gunman is a former aide to Congressman Whittaker. He's believed to be holding the Congressman and approximately half a dozen others hostage in the back room of Sharkley's Gym. No shots have yet been fired, and we're holding out hopes for-" She broke off as she noticed that a number of reporters were holding a hushed conversation amongst themselves. "Folks, I could use a little love here. If you've got something to say, put up your hand and wait for the teacher to call on you."

She was puzzled and a little disconcerted by the worried eyes that snapped up to meet hers. CJ hesitated. "Is there something I should know about here, guys?"

After a slightly uncomfortable pause, Katie cautiously raised a hand. "Um, CJ? Sharkley's Gym? You're sure?"

She blinked. "Well, I'm in the business of reporting the news for you guys to spread to the world, so... one would hope." She frowned. "What's at Sharkley's?"

Katie glanced around at the faces of her fellow reporters. "That's Rick's gym," she offered tentatively.

"Rick- our Rick?" CJ's eyes, like everyone else's, were drawn to the still-empty chair where Rick Maskey usually sat.

"He goes to the gym most mornings before work," Katie confirmed. CJ was aware of a new buzz of discomfort rippling through the press pool. These were seasoned journalists, well used to confronting doom and destruction, and some of them had probably been in no little danger themselves reporting from the middle of war zones as foreign correspondents. But none of them had expected one of their own to come to any harm on the DC streets.

CJ found herself completely disconcerted - as much by the press corps' sudden uncertainty as by the news. "Okay. Uh, okay, well-" She made a snap decision. "You know what? There are people who should probably know that. Excuse me."

She quickly descended from the podium, and for once there was no chorus of catcalls begging her to linger a moment longer.


	6. VI

** VI **

"CJ?"

CJ slowed her walk momentarily to let Donna Moss catch up with her.

"Is it true one of the hostages downtown is a White House reporter?" Donna asked, obviously concerned.

CJ grimaced. "Looks like it," she admitted.

"Who?"

"Rick Maskey."

Donna looked upset. "I know Rick. He's nice."

"Yes, he is," CJ agreed grimly. One of her reporters, dammit. Bad enough to be unable to help when they were at the mercy of mercenary guerrillas somewhere halfway across the globe, but this...

She changed mental gears. "The police are negotiating with the guy - Rick'll be fine," she insisted firmly, as if confidence could guarantee it. "So what can I do for you, Donna? Do you need anything?"

"Uh, no." Donna pulled a slightly sheepish face. "I'm sort of avoiding answering the phones."

CJ raised an eyebrow. "Josh stepping on Congressional toes?"

"What? Oh, no. No." Donna gave a tentative smile. "He's got nine of the votes we need on Healthcare," she offered brightly.

CJ came to a stop. "Nine?" she asked ecstatically.

"Yeah."

"As in nine of the desired eleven? As in- some percentage that's a little bit more than eighty, which if I was the president I would probably work out in my head, but since I'm not I won't bother to do the math?"

She grinned and nodded. "Yeah."

"We're really gonna pass this thing?" CJ said delightedly.

Donna's smile became a little more wobbly. "Hopefully," she hedged.

"Ten and eleven's the bummer," CJ surmised.

"Boy howdy."

"So who are you ducking, if you're not ducking angry Congressmen?"

Donna pulled a face. "Okay, CJ, I know this is totally, totally the wrong time for this, but you wouldn't happen to have any advice for putting off well-meaning parents?"

"Your parents?"

"My mother. It's my birthday next Friday, and she's been calling up to give me... encouraging chats." Donna wrinkled her nose at the thought.

CJ shot her a look. "Not the 'We're Very Proud, You've Got a Marvellous Career, and By the Way Why Aren't You Married Yet?' talk?"

"The very same." Donna nodded emphatically.

CJ sighed. "I know it well."

"So what would you suggest I do?"

"Change your telephone number," she said briskly. "Get a fake passport. Move to Mexico."

"Thanks for that," Donna said dryly.

"No problem."

They split off and went their separate ways.

* * *

"Leo." CJ ducked into his office, and he held up a finger as he listened to somebody on the other end of the phone.

"Okay, thanks." He looked up at her, cradling the phone against his shoulder. "CJ."

"Leo, it looks like one of our hostages might be-"

"A member of the press pool," he nodded. "I saw the briefing."

"Leo-"

"Hold on a second." He grabbed a small pad and scribbled something down as he listened.

"Leo, losing a reporter is something I'd really rather not do," she said warningly.

"The FBI are negotiating," he told her. "We're gonna see if this guy's willing to let your reporter be a go-between."

"Is this gonna put him in more danger?" she asked sharply.

Leo shook his head. "This guy's out to get the government. So far as he's concerned, the press are his friends."

"How sure are you of that?" CJ demanded. Leo grimaced, then shrugged.

"Relatively."

She sighed. "Leo..."

"It's a better shot than anything else we've got," he told her. She made to speak and he cut her off with a quick gesture. "Okay," he said into the phone. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll hold. We've got a guy on the scene," he told CJ. "I'm finding out what's going on."

"Okay." She hovered hesitantly. "You mind if I wait?"

He tipped his head towards the chair in invitation. "Could be a while," he warned. "This guy's pretty much setting his own timeframe."

"Yeah."

They sat in silence for a few moments.

CJ looked at Leo. "Some guy just walks into a downtown gym and whips out a gun?"

"Yeah."

She shook her head slowly. More gun crime. And yet, as they all knew from experience by now, no matter how this turned out Americans would be no more inclined to equate gun crimes with regulating gun ownership than before.

Crazy way to run a country.

After a moment, she said "Donna says we've got nine of the votes on Healthcare."

"Yeah, it's the other two that are gonna hurt," Leo nodded.

"Yeah."

They continued to wait.

* * *

"Hey, Donna."

"Oh, hi, Sam." She smiled up at him, fingers still flying over the keyboard at a million miles a minute. "Do you need Josh? 'Cuz he's still-"

"No, it's okay." He held up a hand to forestall her. "Just wondered if he needed anything."

"I don't think so. He's kicking Congressional ass right now, he's pretty much happy as a clam."

"Yeah." Sam sighed, and perched on the edge of her desk. It was late, but Josh's bullpen was still bustling, staffers running about compiling information on just about every Congressman Josh had ever met.

"Looking for something to do?" Donna asked.

"Toby's got his teeth in another of my drafts," Sam explained. "I figured the best way to preserve my sanity was to just stop watching."

"I think Toby's got a problem," Donna sympathised.

"Maybe." Sam looked unconvinced. He sighed again. "Maybe it's me. Maybe I've lost my... something."

"Well, if you get your something back, could you maybe write me a position paper?" asked Donna hopefully.

Sam wrinkled his forehead in a frown. "What kind of a position paper?"

"The kind that lays out for my mother that my job is actually quite important, I'm not gonna get infected by all the politics flying around and become evil, and I'm nearly positive that I'll still be able to find someone to marry by the time I'm a ripe old maid of thirty-five."

"Yeah." Sam smiled softly. "Yeah, I don't think I can help you there." He rubbed his forehead and stood up. "I need a drink."

"Sam." Donna gave him a concerned look. "You shouldn't go out drinking on your own."

"Why not?" he demanded, a little more aggressively than he'd intended.

"'Cause you're-" She hesitated, and amended whatever she'd been planning to say. "'Cause you've lost your something." She offered him a tentative smile.

"And I won't find it at the bottom of a pint glass?" he completed wryly.

"Well, I can't speak for speechwriting, but I gotta say being drunk plays hell with my typing."

"Typing under the influence?" He smirked, but there was a desperately weary edge even to his amusement.

"Hell, I type in my sleep." Donna smiled at him. "I woke up one morning and found I'd typed six pages of briefing notes on the GDC. I wouldn't even have minded, if I hadn't done the exact same work the day before when I was awake."

"Yeah." Sam smiled wryly. "I don't suppose it matters. We're going round in circles anyway."

"CJ and Leo are trying to get the hostages freed using the reporter as a go-between," Donna offered, because she wasn't quite sure what to do with this new, resigned, tired-looking Sam.

He smiled harshly. "Yeah. Yet another thing I can't do anything to help with." He sighed once more, and got up to go. Donna had to call out after him.

"Sam." He turned back, and she gave him a taste of one of her guilt-faces that always worked so well on Josh. "Don't go out and get drunk on your own, okay?"

He hesitated, and then smiled tiredly. "Okay," he promised.

She stared worriedly after him for a long time once he'd gone.

* * *

Sam strolled back into the bar, and smiled as he recognised a familiar blond head at a corner table. He dropped into the seat across from his drinking buddy of the previous night.

Steve blinked in surprise, and then smiled. "Hey, it's the prodigal politician," he said brightly. "Still contributing to the downfall of society?"

Sam couldn't help grinning back. Steve seemed completely cheerful and carefree; something neither he, nor any of his coworkers had been for a long, long time. "Oh, I'm doing my best."

"Cool." The young man sipped his beer, and Sam eyed it for a moment.

"I promised a friend I wouldn't go out on my own and get drunk," he admitted. Steve shrugged fluidly.

"Well, what am I, chopped liver?"

Sam's heart already felt lighter. "Yeah," he grinned, and gestured towards the bar. "I'm gonna go get a beer."

Beer, peace and quiet, and the company of somebody who _wasn't_ run into ground by terminal depression and didn't give a damn what the nosecount was on Friday's Healthcare Bill. Just what the doctor ordered.


	7. VII

** VII **

"Hey, Carol."

"Oh, hey, Bonnie!" Carol slowed her walk and gave the Communications assistant a curious smile. "You're still here? I thought all you guys had gone home."

"Ain't nobody in the office but me and Toby. And I am _out_ of here." Bonnie rolled her eyes. "Sam bailed about three hours ago, for which I totally do not blame him, and I drew the short straw to babysit His Grumpiness in his place."

"Toby's still working?" Carol asked, surprised. CJ was still in her office, of course, waiting for news on poor Rick, but so far as she knew there was nothing particularly big going down in Communications. "Is he waiting for news on the hostages?"

"No." Bonnie contradicted herself with a shrug. "Well, I don't know. He could be. But he's been like this all week. It wouldn't be so bad that he's practically living in his office, if it wasn't for the fact that he's also actively trying to kill everybody who comes within shouting distance."

Carol winced. "Any idea what's eating him?"

Bonnie could only shrug. "He's Toby. We'll probably never know."

"Yeah." She grimaced nervously. "Think he knows something we don't?"

"I hope not," said Bonnie fervently, and Carol nodded in agreement. They were all aware of Toby's semi-legendary ability to pick up when something enormously bad was on the horizon. Carol wasn't sure whether it meant he was super-smart or just the only one pessimistic enough to _believe_ all these awful things could happen to them.

But surely they were due a little break from bad news right at the moment. It seemed like there hadn't been a single thing gone right for them since reelection. The chain had to break sometime - didn't it?

As she waved off her friend and returned faithfully to CJ's side, Carol only hoped that Toby's psychic disaster sensors weren't pointing to anything happening to Rick Maskey.

* * *

Leo McGarry studied his president with an affection that would have embarrassed him if his old friend had glanced up and seen it in his face. Small chance of that; for all that his glasses were perched on his nose and a briefing book lay open on his lap, Jed Bartlet's head was nodding against his chest in the first stages of a much-needed doze.

_When did we become old men?_ Leo wondered to himself. Surely there had been a time when they had both been young and fiery and ready to take on the world? Or had he just imagined that? Truth to tell, he hadn't felt young in a long, long time.

But Jed... Leo had always been quietly envious of the way his friend could get caught up in something, wrap himself in a dream so that his eyes lit up and the years fell away. He would be talking about something, and suddenly you would see through the distinguished looks of his later years to the bright-eyed boy as he'd first met as his old friend Abbey's new fiancé.

That look, that sudden sense of boyish wonder, had been sorely lacking in Jed Bartlet's face of late, and Leo missed it. The president looked tired all the time, and he feared the relentless stream of political defeats were taking their toll. They badly needed a victory to recharge their leader's batteries.

Leo wondered with a quiet smirk what the American people would think if they saw their leader now. Head dipping ever-closer to the pages of his briefing book, he looked more like everybody's favourite grandpa than the leader of the free world.

He looked up at the quiet sound of the door, and Charlie padded in with a glance at the sleeping president that mirrored Leo's amused affection. He decided to take the safer route, and came over to Leo.

"We've got the call," he said quietly, and Leo sat upright.

"They got the hostages out? Was anybody hurt?"

"They had to shoot the hostage-taker," Charlie told him, and Leo squeezed his eyes shut in dismay. "One of the hostages has a head-wound, and Rick Maskey was shot."

CJ's reporter. _Aw, hell._ "How bad?" he asked urgently.

"Not so bad," Charlie said, with a tentative smile. "He was hit in the arm, and they think he's gonna be okay."

"Well, thank God for _that_ at least." There would have probably have been grave publicity-related repercussions to the death of a White House reporter in a gun crime, but dealing with that would have paled against facing an angry CJ. It had been partly his idea that Maskey would be safer if the hostage-taker knew he wasn't a politician. Had he been wrong? Had their plan saved the hostages from worse injury, or caused the ones that had already happened?

He stood up to take the call. Charlie hovered, glancing at the figure in the other chair, still oblivious to their exchange. "Should I tell the president?" he asked, obviously all too eager to put the responsibility for waking the sleeping bear on somebody else's shoulders.

Leo looked across at the snoozing president, and smiled. Injuries or not, everybody but the shooter had got out alive. This was good news. Good news could wait.

"Let him sleep a little," he advised, and they both crept out and left the president to his slumber.

* * *

CJ was bone tired, but her exhaustion disappeared the moment Leo appeared in the doorway. She leapt to her feet. "Leo, did we-?" He waved her back into her seat.

"It's done."

"The hostages?" she demanded quickly.

"One guy got whacked on the head with something," Leo told her. "It's quite a nasty head wound, but they're expecting him to pull through."

"Not the Congressman?"

He shook his head. "We'll have his details through before your next briefing." Leo grimaced. "Rick Maskey got shot."

CJ jolted straight back to her feet, and Leo quickly raised a hand to quiet her. "He was shot in the arm. He's receiving medical attention right now, he's gonna be fine."

Some of the panic bled out of her features, but a wary dismay replaced it. "Leo, did we-?"

"CJ-" He was already shaking his head warningly.

"Did we do this?" she completed, relentless.

Leo let out a heavy sigh. "CJ, it's a hostage situation. We don't know what's going through his head, we don't know what's gonna set him off... He didn't shoot Rick because we told him he was a reporter. He shot Rick because he panicked, and we don't know if that... We got the hostages out alive, CJ."

"Yeah." There was a moment of silence, and then she asked "The shooter?"

"Dead," Leo said heavily. CJ just nodded. Should they be glad? Sorry? Relieved? It was never that easy to separate the emotions into neat little boxes.

"Rick's gonna be okay?" she asked instead.

"He'll be fine." Leo smiled. "Might have a little trouble typing-"

"We should give him an exclusive," CJ said impulsively.

"On what?"

"On whatever."

"For getting shot?"

CJ shrugged. "Seems like a damn good reason to me."

"You think nobody's gonna notice that we gave the guy an exclusive for getting shot?" Leo pointed out.

"Hey, they wanna go get themselves shot, they can get in line," CJ said sharply.

Leo hesitated, then smiled. "The president's gonna want to talk to this guy anyway."

"Yeah."

"Give the guy his time in the spotlight," he nodded. "He's earned it." Leo turned to go, and CJ jerked a thumb towards the briefing room.

"I'll go tell the press."

Leo frowned. "They're still here?"

"He's one of their own," she reminded him softly.

"Yeah."

They were both silent, remembering all the good and bad news they'd waited up for on far too many occasions. CJ finally let loose a fragile smile. "This could have gone down a lot worse," she admitted.

"Yeah." Leo nodded. "Yeah, it could." He straightened up, and turned to leave. "Goodnight."

"It is," she called back, and grabbed her glasses as she headed for the press room. Rick Maskey had been shot, but he was alive, and he would recover.

It _was_ a good night.


	8. VIII

** VIII **

**WEDNESDAY:**

Donna arrived at her desk and dropped her bag in its usual place. She shrugged off her coat, picked up the post - and paused. Her new position afforded her a view through the door of her boss's office. Josh was sitting at his desk, working.

She blinked, rubbed her eyes, and took another look. Josh was still sitting at his desk, working. Donna stepped up to the doorframe and rapped upon it sharply. "Paging the Twilight Zone."

Josh looked up and granted her a brief smile. "Hey, Donna. Can you get me the stats on the Hendricks thing?"

Professional instinct had her reaching for the right set of files even as her brain attempted to process the unexpected information. It was not unheard of for Josh to be found in his office this early in the morning; however, said discovery usually involved a rumpled suit, a scruffy-haired head slumped against the desk, and much poking, shaking and even a little subtle kicking. Josh not only present but conscious, alert and already working was definitely a novelty.

"You're here," she noted, in tones of quiet disbelief. She might have thought he'd worked all night, except that was a fresh suit. The odds of Josh spontaneously deciding he'd worn a suit for too long and had to change it...

Nah.

"Well observed." He opened the files she handed him and ran a finger quickly down a list of figures.

"You did, in fact, leave the office last night?" she confirmed.

"Yes."

"You didn't like, double back or anything?"

"No. I left, I went home, I came back." He shrugged, as if it was perfectly normal for him to get up at this time in the morning, and reached for his phone. Donna blinked.

"Who can you possibly be calling at this time in the morning?"

"Very pissed Congressmen?" he hazarded.

"Way to win the vote, Josh."

He gave her a wry smile. "I got ten."

The fact that he was here and doing this persuaded her that now was not the time for a victory dance. "And eleven?" she asked.

"Yeah." He sighed heavily, and the illusion of a bright and breezy, up-and-at-'em Josh momentarily wavered. He looked exhausted. Then he painted it over with a smirk. "Say, these Republican Wisconsin gomers your mother's trying to get you to marry. Are any of them-?"

"I'm not marrying anybody from Congress to get you your last vote, Josh."

"Yeah, okay. I think I would," he admitted, and Donna smiled.

"So tell me, Josh, who's on the list of possible future Mr. Lymans?"

He shot her a look, then snorted and shrugged. "Right now, we're trying absolutely everybody we can get." He considered. "Except Tavestock. The wounds are still too fresh. There's no way we're going to Tavestock."

Donna nodded, and made a mental note to look up the telephone number for Alan Tavestock.

* * *

Leo looked up as Josh, CJ and Toby filed into his office. He waited a few moments, but Sam didn't follow. He shot a look at CJ, who shrugged subtly.

With a frown, he started the meeting. "Josh. Tomorrow's bill."

Josh grinned, although Leo could tell from the signs of strain in his face that he wasn't as blasé as he pretended. "We're ten for eleven, Leo! It's going through."

"Not until we've got number eleven," Leo reminded him. "Who did you tap for the last three?"

"Meyers, Reeseman, and Zantowsky," Josh supplied, and Leo nodded slowly. The earlier votes Josh had bought with a little well-applied pressure and arm-twisting, but those three must have cost a number of weighty concessions. They couldn't really afford to give anything else away on this, and right now he could only think of one Congressman who wasn't in any position to demand favours. But Josh wasn't going to like it.

"Tavestock," Toby said for him.

"Oh, no way!" his deputy burst out.

"It's gotta be," Leo overruled him. "He's not in any position to duck the party line, not with this finance thing still hanging over him."

"Yeah, and he thinks I put it there!" Josh objected. It was the Deputy Chief of Staff who'd counselled, wisely enough, that the last thing the president needed to do was throw his weight behind the integrity of Alan Tavestock. The Congressman had been cleared of any wrongdoing - mostly through lack of evidence - but he was less than happy that the president hadn't been there for him, even after the fact. "It's gonna be a hell of a hard sell, Leo."

He didn't doubt that, but they needed this bill. "You said you could get us this bill; go out there and sell it."

Josh grimaced, but nodded in resignation.

The door suddenly opened, and Sam stepped in. Or rather, slouched in. Instead of being his bouncy self of old, the Communications Deputy looked bleary-eyed and tired. His clothes were as immaculate as ever, but nonetheless he exuded an aura of being considerably less neatly-pressed than usual. Leo wasn't sure if he would have needed his expert eye to diagnose a hangover.

If it had been Josh, he would have made some sarcastic remark and got on with it - but if it had been Josh, it wouldn't have been so worryingly out-of-character. It wasn't like Sam to get drunk enough to suffer from it the next morning, especially when Leo knew none of the others could have been out with him the previous night.

He wasn't the only one to notice, either; Toby's gaze lingered on his deputy, and CJ looked concerned. Josh's crinkled forehead was far from difficult to read, but if Sam noticed the attention he was getting, he chose not to acknowledge it. He slumped into his chair and barely succeeded in disguising his squint against the lights.

Something was clearly going on there - but it sure as hell wasn't Leo's place to take issue with it. "Sam," he said with a neutral nod, and quickly shifted gears. "Toby. Tomorrow's speech; it's done, right?"

"It's still being polished." Leo shot him a disbelieving frown. This was an after-dinner speech, for an audience who would be undemanding and probably already under the influence of alcohol. It was the sort of thing Toby and Sam could casually toss off in a matter of hours. What the hell was going on over in Communications these days?

Echoing his thoughts, CJ shot Toby a look. "Still? What the hell is there left to polish?"

"It could be better," he pronounced moodily. Leo couldn't tell if that was some kind of dig at Sam or not, since the younger man failed to look up from his examination of the carpeting, and Toby could play poker for a living.

He suspected that nothing more productive was coming out of this staff meeting. "Okay, whatever. Go, work. CJ, could you hang back a minute?"

The press secretary obligingly lingered. "You want to talk about Rick Maskey?" she guessed.

"No, actually." Leo drummed his fingers awkwardly. Damn, he hated this sort of thing. "I was wondering if you could maybe have a quick word with Sam."

CJ was quick to realise that he didn't mean about the latest policy initiative. "Any idea what's wrong?" she asked softly, and Leo recognised the big sister vibe that always seemed to come out when any of her 'boys' was in trouble. Provided said trouble didn't involve explanations to the press, anyway.

In answer to her question, he could only shrug. "No. But he's been leaving early and coming in hung-over, and now it's been two days in a row."

CJ nodded, then shrugged expansively. "Could be Toby," she suggested. "He's been in a hell of mood lately, over I know not what..." She shook her head.

"Yeah, question is, is Sam out of sorts because he's moody, or is Toby moody because Sam's out of sorts?" A pretty knotty question, when dealing with two individuals who were equally repressed in very different ways. Leo sighed. "Have a quiet word with him, okay?"

"Why me?" CJ frowned.

He gave her his sharpest look. "You think I should pull one of my staff aside and ask him if he's drinking too much?"

As he expected, CJ was unable to hold his gaze for very long. "I'll talk to him," she promised.

"Thank you."

* * *

"Hey, Donna." Josh stuck his head around the door. "I need-"

"Everyone but Tavestock, I know."

"Yeah. Incidentally..."

"What?"

"I need you to set me up a meeting with Tavestock."

Donna didn't blink. "Ten-thirty suit you?" she asked.

"I... uh, yeah," he shrugged, caught off balance. She picked up the phone and pressed a button.

"Becky, still there? Yeah, he'll take the ten-thirty slot. Thanks."

She replaced the receiver, and gave Josh a smug look.


	9. IX

** IX **

"Sam."

Sam looked up with a mental groan as CJ approached his desk. He was in no mood to speak to anybody this morning, not even people who weren't Toby. "What do you need?" he asked, unable to totally contain a heavy sigh.

"A word," she said, and closed the door behind her. She leaned against it, looking at him expectantly.

Great. It was 'let's cool off crazy Sam' time.

"Whatever it is, I'm fine," he said shortly.

As a pre-emptive tactic, it was resoundingly unsuccessful. "Are you hung over, Sparky?" she asked him, coming over to sit on the edge of his desk.

He shrugged and snorted. "A little. Is that an offence now?"

CJ regarded his face searchingly, but he doubted she'd find anything when he himself couldn't find any one root to his general malaise. "You're not usually late."

"I walked to work. It took longer than I thought." Mainly because he'd been planning to drive, and hadn't realised what a bad idea that was until he got behind the wheel and spent several minutes trying to remember what sequence of controls would let him pull out of the parking space.

"You've been out drinking a lot, lately," she observed, keeping her voice carefully neutral. He snorted again, a sound of harsh amusement.

"Believe me, CJ, alcohol is not my problem." Truth to tell, those nights hanging out at the bar, downing beers and trading pointless conversation, were the only time he felt okay. And not because he was obliterating his memory with alcohol, either; it was being _out_, away from his job, not thinking about it, not drowning in it...

CJ leaned forward pointedly. "Then what _is_ your problem?"

Sam could only shrug, and shake his head. She sighed, and rubbed her forehead.

"I'm worried about you, Sam," she told him softly, and he resented the fact that he couldn't doubt her sincerity. "You seem..." She waved a hand, casting for a word, not finding it. "Depressed," she finished lamely.

"Ah. Because circumstances are such that it's hard to believe I'm not bursting with joy," he noted dryly.

Now she nodded in reluctant agreement. CJ swung her legs for a moment, letting the silence linger. "It'll get better," she told him.

"It won't," he said, shaking his head. He was chilled to hear that he didn't even sound bitter. He'd gone beyond that now, into cold certainty. "It never does."

"We do good things," CJ said firmly, and he wondered if she'd been comparing notes with Donna, or had just taken a stab at the source of his frustration. It wasn't as if it was difficult to guess.

"Like what?" he wanted to know. Genuinely wanted to know, because it seemed to him he really couldn't think of any.

"We rescued the hostages."

"We got a guy shot," Sam reminded her.

"We've got the Healthcare Bill. It'll save a lot of lives."

"It won't pass."

"Sam, are you thinking about quitting?"

The question, though it had been hovering on the edge of conversation for some time, still caught him by surprise when spoken out loud. He stared at her for a long moment, then lowered his gaze.

"No," he said quickly.

He wasn't sure if he was lying.

* * *

"And tomorrow's dinner will be held in the-" The press briefing came to an abrupt halt as everybody craned around to see the object of CJ's sudden bright grin.

The young reporter leaned somewhat sheepishly against the wall, bandaged right arm held across his chest in a sling. He seemed a little taken aback by the sudden attention, and even more so when the room burst into spontaneous applause.

"Well, looky here, it's our neighbourhood action hero," CJ smiled. "Take a seat, Rick, and I hope your paper gave you a cassette recorder."

"Oh, they went one better." He nodded towards an even younger-looking girl, who blushed furiously. "I got an intern with a pencil."

"Boy, you know you're in the big leagues now," CJ quipped. "Okay folks, let's get this briefing back on track..."

As she professionally rattled off the rest of the day's information, she kept an eye on the unfortunate reporter. Back in his usual seat, he was the picture of professionalism, but she couldn't miss the way his skin was several shades paler than usual or the hesitant, slightly shaky nature to his movements. He probably shouldn't be back at work, but she and the rest of the workaholics in the West Wing were certainly in no position to judge.

As the rest of the press filed out, she called "Hey, Rick, you got a minute?" He hung back, obviously expecting it.

"Morning, CJ," he nodded, a little of the colour returning to his face now the room wasn't so cramped and crowded.

She allowed the professional press secretary exterior to collapse into a more concerned look. "Hey. How're you doing?"

Rick shrugged, then winced as his injured arm followed the movement. "I'm, I'm... okay, I guess." He looked down at the sling. "They told me the bullet barely grazed my arm, but, you know, I think they were lying."

"They probably heard you were a reporter." CJ smiled, to take any hint of a sting out of it. "Hey, you wanna come through, sit down?"

"No, I'm okay," Rick protested quickly, but CJ was insistent.

"CJ, really, I'm fine," he continued to argue as Carol offered him a chair. "I don't need-"

"Well, hello there, Mr. Maskey." Rick blinked and struggled to get to his feet as he recognised the president's voice. "No, don't do that," the president urged him quickly. He smiled. "I'm not gonna try and make you shake my hand, either."

The reporter looked at him blankly as he casually pulled up a chair next to him, as if it was perfectly normal thing for him to be doing. "Uh, Mr. President, shouldn't you... be somewhere?"

"Yes, I should! I do believe I should be talking to a young man who was the hero of a hostage situation last night. Do we know anybody around here who answers to that description?"

Despite the fact that he felt decidedly uncomfortable with that take on his actions, Rick couldn't help responding to the president's playful grin. Though he prided himself on being a professional reporter, it was difficult not to be caught up in President Bartlet's aura of charm; not just the awe of the office, but the man's own personal magnetism.

"I'd hardly call it heroic, Mr. President," Rick said, wishing he felt less like a shy fourth-grader on a trip to the White House. "I only got shot because I was stupid and I panicked."

"You got shot because you were willing to act as a go-between and try and settle things peacefully," Bartlet corrected him, turning more serious.

"Thank you, Mr. President," he said, mostly to the floor. He was taken aback when the man clapped him on the shoulder.

"No, Rick, thank you." The president's face was momentarily grave. "If you hadn't been willing to do what you did, there could have been more lives lost than just the gunman's... and I wouldn't like to have to be dealing with that this morning."

And for all that he was a cynical newsman, Rick didn't for a second believe he meant just the negative publicity it would have brought.

The president pushed himself up, and Rick noticed the way he grimaced as he did so. "Sir, are you okay?" he asked, momentarily forgetting the lines of protocol that no doubt forbade him from making that kind of remark. The president smiled tiredly, and brushed his hair back from his forehead.

"I'm fairly sure it should be me asking you that," he chided gently.

"I guess you must have had a long night," Rick realised. Certainly, had it been any normal day, he might have spent the night sniffing around the press room or even the site itself, eagerly awaiting the thrilling scoop and the casualty list. Funny how actually being trapped in a room with the man with the gun could change your whole perspective...

"I think yours must have been longer than mine." Despite his earlier promise, the president briefly took Rick's left hand in a slightly awkward handshake. "It's an honour, Mr. Maskey, and I assure you we're all very grateful for your bravery."

Rick had, in his career, faced all manner of politicians; some guilty, some not, and nearly all filled with pompous self-righteousness. Whatever the situation, whatever the facts, he'd always gone above and beyond the call of duty to face them down with his questions.

This was probably the first time any public figure had ever left him speechless.

Neutrality of the press or not, Rick was extremely glad as his president smiled and walked away that he had, in fact, voted for Bartlet.

* * *

Josh hesitated in the doorway to Tavestock's office, then steeled himself and went in. The secretary looked up at him, spared him a distasteful look, and touched the intercom. "Sir? Mr. Lyman's here to see you."

There was an indecipherable mumble from the speaker, and she motioned Josh inside with a pointed eyebrow. He rather got the impression that he wasn't the flavour of the month around here.

Not that it was really news.

"Congressman Tavestock," he said, with a respectful nod. Or at least one that looked that way, despite the fact that respect was not something he found himself full of in Tavestock's presence. The man might have escaped any legal repercussions for his financial dodgy dealings, but everybody knew damn well he was guilty.

"Josh Lyman," he said coldly. Alan Tavestock was a large, flabby man, with small dark eyes that gave him a decidedly piggish look.

"I'm here to-"

"Try and bully me into voting your way, yes, I'm well aware." He leaned across the desk and glared at Josh. "Don't talk to me as if I'm stupid, Mr. Lyman. You advised the president not to speak in my defence."

Josh kept his back straight and his expression level. "Yes, I did. And anybody else in my position would have done the same, and you know it.".

"I was innocent!" the Congressman protested fiercely.

Josh shrugged. "And the investigation proved it."

"The investigation was nothing without the president's backing! If he'd been behind me, I would be vindicated, but instead I'm the guy they didn't find anything on - but hey, if there was nothing going on, then why did the president refuse to come out in support? You hung me out to dry!"

Fair point. "Yes, we did," Josh agreed. "It's harsh, it's cruel, it's blatantly unfair and it sucks - but it's not personal. Sometimes the cards come down against you, and you have to take a hit. It's the way the game is played, Congressman."

There was a long pause. "You're right," he admitted darkly.

"I know." He looked the Congressman in the eye. "We'll have your vote?"

"I'll vote." The look Tavestock levelled at him was one hundred percent pure malevolence.

"Thank you."

In the name of decorum, he left the victory leap until he was safely outside the front of the building.


	10. X

** X **

Charlie stuck his head around the Oval Office door. "Mr. President? Josh."

"Send him in." The president stood up expectantly, and beside him Leo did the same, the dry reports they'd been going over completely forgotten.

One look at Josh's face told the story.

"Josh?" asked Leo, beginning to grin. Josh's smirk threatened to take over his whole face.

"It's in the bag," he said emphatically.

"We got Tavestock?"

"We got Tavestock," he nodded, still grinning. Leo looked across at the president, who looked delighted. He pulled his glasses off and blinked at Josh.

"I can tell everybody the Healthcare Bill is going through?"

"You can."

"Well done, both of you," the president smiled at them. "Very well done."

Leo was fairly sure the credit for this one didn't belong on his shoulders. He stepped forward and laid a hand on Josh's arm. "You did good, Josh," he said quietly. At this point, he discovered he'd been wrong in believing his deputy's grin couldn't get any wider.

"Well, go on," the president urged. "Go tell CJ!"

Josh went to do his bidding, but paused in the doorway. "I think she already knows."

"Let me guess. There was shouting?" Leo raised an eyebrow.

"Also hugging. Possibly some tap-dancing."

"Get out," he advised. Josh positively bounced out of the room.

The president turned back to his old friend. "We should seriously consider giving Donna a pay raise," he said dryly.

"I'll say." Leo rolled his eyes. "He's gonna be unbearable for the rest of the week."

"He's earned it."

"He has." They exchanged a smile.

"The hostages are alive, the Healthcare Bill is going through, and my wife and youngest daughter will both be home tomorrow." The president savoured the words, as if half surprised to find them true.

Things were beginning to look up.

* * *

Sam read the final draft over a few more times. Every I dotted, every T crossed? Every typo caught, and every possible point of contention changed and changed and changed again?

He couldn't see one single tiny thing wrong with it. Every sentence had been tweaked to the point of perfection; every syllable rang with exactly the right sound. He couldn't see one single thing Toby could possibly take issue with.

Of course, he hadn't been able to see any of the other ones, either.

There should probably have been some kind of trepidation as he picked up the draft of the speech and approached Toby's office, but he was beginning to discover that he just didn't care anymore. Maybe Toby would rip his hard work to shreds. So what? It didn't mean anything anyway. It was just words on a page. Words that didn't do anything to change the world.

Why should anybody care what words came out of the president's mouth? Everybody knew they were carefully calculated, put there by scheming politicians and spin-doctors. Presidential speeches weren't about truth, they were about scoring points, carefully shaped and sculpted to strike exactly the right balance between all the sections of society you needed to court today.

Once he would have leapt up and struck out against such a cynical definition of his profession. Now it seemed about right to him.

When had all the hope bled out of him? Maybe it had happened a long time ago. Maybe even as long ago as that day he'd discovered that the president had lied to them, that the Real Thing might be real, but he was still as human as the rest of them. There had seemed to be brighter times in between - but maybe that had just been the false thrill of battling for reelection.

Why had they even fought that fight? It wasn't as if they were _doing_ anything with their time in power. It was more like they were babysitting the country, keeping it safe from the likes of Ritchie until somebody who _would_ make it better came along.

If such people existed. Maybe they didn't. He'd thought he could be one of those people, but looking back that belief seemed pathetically nave. He didn't change the world, he just wrote speeches.

And, apparently, not even good speeches.

He handed the paper over to Toby, and looked at the floor; not out of any particular deference or embarrassment, but because it seemed to take too much energy to bother to do anything else.

Toby seemed to take an inordinately long time to read through the speech. Sam used it to think of all the other things he could have done with his life. Depressingly, he couldn't really think of much at all, except to have stayed at Gage-Whitney and married Lisa. And maybe that would have been a soulless, thankless existence, but hey, at least he would have known to expect that right from the beginning. Instead of building himself a nice tower of high hopes, and hitting the ground that much harder.

Toby rustled the papers as he slid them back into the folder, and cleared his throat. He gave Sam a slight nod. "It's fine."

To Toby, apparently, this was more than sufficient response. He'd slaved over about twenty drafts in the past week, making changes he didn't even understand the reasons for, and now it was 'fine'. Not, he noted, 'great' or even 'good', but 'fine'.

Glutton for punishment that he was, he had to say something. "You don't want me to-?"

"It's fine."

Toby casually shoved the folder on top of a pile on his desk, and seemed vaguely surprised to find that Sam hadn't gone anywhere. Because he of course existed only when it was convenient for Toby.

"So we're done?" He really wasn't after any effusive praise here. Even a quick 'you've nailed it', couched in biting Toby-sarcasm about how long it taken him, might have given him some clue. It would be nice to at least know whether he'd at last turned in an acceptable speech, or his boss had just given up all hope of making him do so.

But Toby, being Toby, just nodded. "I need a summary of the Peterson Report," he said, and went back to his work. Sam stared at him for a few moments, then walked out.

He didn't bother to stomp or slam the door. Toby probably wouldn't have noticed.

* * *

Bonnie and Ginger exchanged glances as Sam emerged from the lion's den. Should they ask? His face didn't betray the near-broken frustration he'd shown the last couple of times he'd spoken with Toby, but he didn't look happy, either.

Anybody who'd met both Sam and Toby for more than, oh, thirty seconds, would have no trouble picking which one to label inscrutable. Well, Toby certainly _was_ impossible to read, but it was a mistake to assume that Sam's wide baby blues betrayed his every mood. When there was something wrong, a pneumatic drill and an FBI forensics team wouldn't get it out of him.

Still, there hadn't been any shouting... Bonnie took a chance.

"Did he like this one?"

Sam snorted bitterly, a sound that really didn't sit well with her mental image of Sam Seaborn. "Apparently, it's 'fine'," he said harshly.

Under normal circumstances, such lacklustre praise from Toby was about all you would expect. But the number of times he'd sent Sam out with alterations the entire bullpen couldn't see the point of...

Which was not to say Toby's amendments didn't make the speech better, because they did. What was baffling everybody, however, was just what the hell had been wrong with it in the first place. It was just an after-dinner speech, but he was polishing it like it was the State of the Union, and he was irrationally mad at everybody else for not doing the same.

She and Ginger had taken their share of the shouting, and every junior staffer in the place had learned to cringe at the sound of Toby's office door, but it was Sam she worried about.

Sam was depressed, and everyone could see it. It was stupid to say that they didn't know why, because really it was pretty obvious, but none of them really knew what to do with a depressed Sam. Toby's moods they were all accustomed to dealing with, but in his once bright and cheerful deputy it was unsettling.

They both watched him surreptitiously as he scowled at his desk, pushing bits of paper about and gripping a pen as if he wanted to stab somebody with it. He tried to read something, and then pushed back his hair as if that could be the reason the words weren't penetrating.

It wasn't as if they themselves weren't swamped with work, but all the same... Ginger hovered in his office doorway and gave him a cautious smile. "Need me to do anything?"

Sam blinked at her, then stood up abruptly. "Actually, yeah." He handed her a thick report. "Toby wants this summarised." He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and walked out. "I think I'm gonna leave."

The two assistants looked at each other, then at the clock. It was half past seven; way late by any normal office standards, early for the White House.

"Does he, like, work here part-time now or something?" Bonnie wondered aloud, and Ginger shrugged.

Leaving early, coming in late... how long before Sam stopped bothering to turn up at all?

* * *

"Hey, you're early." Sam was on either beer six or beer seven when Steve took a seat beside him at the bar. He supposed he was a regular now. A regular drinker, and why not? It was probably about time his job drove him to drink.

"Yeah, well. My boss was doing a remarkable impression of a-" He waved his hands helplessly, and took another sip of his beer to avoid having to come up with a suitable finish.

"That's Toby, right?" Steve asked, signalling the bartender. Sam blinked at him.

"I told you about him?"

"He was the main focus of your semi-drunken rambling, yes," he agreed. "Thanks," he said, accepting his beer from the bartender.

"Yeah, but... you listened." He hoped the note of plaintive surprise in his voice was mostly to do with being drunk.

"I got ears, don't I?" Steve shrugged.

"Nobody listens to me," Sam told his beer. Yup, he was definitely drunk.

"I like listening to you. You're an interesting guy." Steve smiled at him, and Sam couldn't help smiling back.

After a moment, he turned back to the bartender. "Hey. 'Nother beer?"

Why not be drunk? It was a hell of a lot easier than being sober.


	11. XI

** XI **

**THURSDAY:**

Leo surveyed his troops. Sam didn't look any less hungover than the day before, but at least he was actually there on time. Toby was dour as ever, but CJ was grinning and so was he. Things really were beginning to look up.

Josh positively bounced into the room, taking bows left and right. "It's done! I did it! The vote it ours. I am the man. The man is me."

Even Sam managed to muster a smile for him. Yes, Josh was ridiculously over the top - but he was also right. Nobody had expected him to rescue Friday's vote, least of all Leo, but somehow he'd managed it.

"Guys, this is exactly the victory we needed," Leo nodded. "This is our chance to turn things around. CJ, how are things going with the press?"

She grinned back. "Right now? We're groovy. Clearly, we should shoot reporters more often." It would take somebody who knew CJ as well as the rest of the senior staff did to realise exactly how much relief and delight that casual quip actually masked.

"What's next, Leo?" Josh asked brightly. Buoyed up by his success, he was ready to take on the world. This was definitely exactly what Josh had needed to put the wind back in his sails.

Leo glanced at his notes, more out of habit than from any need to remind himself. "CJ, I need you to make sure tomorrow's vote doesn't get completely buried in the fuss over tonight's dinner party. We've got some good news; let's get it out there."

Josh grinned smugly.

"What time's the First Lady coming in?" CJ asked.

"Her plane touches down late afternoon, so she probably won't have much time before the party starts," Leo told her. "Zoey'll be here earlier, which should put the president in a better mood for the rest of the day." Not that he needed it; the president had been decidedly cranky over the past few weeks, but the good news about the Healthcare Bill had given him a new lease of life. Leo was very relieved to see him smiling again. Maybe they really _were_ coming out of the slump they'd been in since reelection.

He checked his mental agenda. "Okay, at the party, I want you to take some temperatures about the Peterson single-parent families thing. Toby, have you got that summary?"

Toby looked across at Sam, who straightened up in his seat. "Ginger was on it last night," he supplied.

"Okay." Leo nodded, and decided to ignore the slightly challenging look Sam shot his superior. What did he care who actually summarised it, as long as it got done? "I'll read it over, but I already know there're a few things in there the Republicans aren't gonna want to swallow, so let's do a little unofficial polling and find out where we're going with this."

What else? Ah yes, his least favourite item on the agenda. "We've got some recommendations through on a new Sex-Ed initiative, so we'll be revisiting that fairly soon. _That's_ gonna go down like a lead balloon." The last set of recommendations had been shelved until after the Midterms, and somehow never got un-shelved. There never _was_ a right time to tackle sex education in schools; anything that approached a safe middle ground got you jumped from both sides simultaneously.

"Unfortunate choice of words, 'go down'," Josh smirked. Leo gave him a look.

"You think we can get somewhere with this?" asked Toby, a little sceptically.

He shrugged. "Maybe. Tomorrow's vote should put a little power back in our corner, but..." Leo sighed. Scraping through a Healthcare Bill that a lot of people wanted was a long way different from throwing their weight behind an initiative _everybody_ wanted to get as far away from as humanly possible. "Still," he cracked a grin, "I want you _all_ to read through the briefing notes carefully. You never know, you might learn something."

CJ rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well. As long as we're working here, it's all academic anyway."

Smiling, Leo dismissed the group. Things weren't quite bright and cheerful yet, but a little bit of the old camaraderie was beginning to creep back. And with Abbey and Zoey in the house that evening, it might just start to feel a bit like old times.

* * *

The president bounded out eagerly at the sound of voices in reception, although his smile fell a little when he saw that it was Leo. "Damn. I was hoping that you'd be my wife."

"You know, there's probably a joke in there somewhere, but we're not gonna go there," Leo observed.

"Good idea," he agreed, shooting a suspicious sideways glance at Charlie. His young aide was keeping a remarkably straight face, but then he usually did.

The two men casually fell into step as they walked. "My wife and daughter are going to be here for tonight's dinner, Leo," he said excitedly. Not that there was any possible way Leo could not know as much, but it was hard to stop the cheerfulness from bubbling over.

"Is Zoey here already?" Leo asked.

"Yes. She's up in the Residence, getting ready for the party."

Leo gave him a look. "We still have about five hours until it starts, right?"

"Yes."

"What the hell is she doing up there?"

"I decided it was safer not to ask."

"Yeah."

Jed quickly waved down the staffers jumping out of their seats as they passed through. Why couldn't he ever train people not to do that? No matter how long he'd already been president, he still found it disconcerting.

"How long is the First Lady staying?" Leo asked him.

He pulled a face. "Not very long, unfortunately. She's got a thing in... California? Monday."

"Oh, man," Leo groaned. Jed gave him a sharp look.

"What was that 'oh man' about?" he demanded. "Why did you just 'oh man' me?"

"I can't commiserate with you about being apart from your wife?" his Chief of Staff said innocently. Jed continued to glare. "That and the fact you get totally cranky when she's not here."

He was scandalised. "I do not get cranky!"

"Sure you don't."

"I am bright and cheerful and a joy to be around."

"Yeah, you're a real treasure," said Leo dryly.

They were quiet for a moment as they walked. Jed sighed. "It's just that I don't sleep," he admitted quietly.

"What's that, Mr. President?"

"I can't sleep! I'm not a man who's accustomed to being in bed on his own. It isn't right."

"Sir, whatever you're asking me to do about that, the answer's no."

He gave Leo another look. "Remind me why I keep you employed?"

"Oh, you are _definitely_ cranky." Leo smirked and peeled away before he had time to think of a suitable parting shot.

"What are you looking at?" he asked Charlie, who was definitely smirking on the inside even if he was doing a damn good job of not showing it.

"Excuse me, Mr. President?" asked his young aide innocently. Jed wasn't fooled. His body man wasn't nearly so meek and guileless as he seemed - something that troubled him more than a little, considering said body man was also his youngest daughter's boyfriend.

"Excited about spending an evening with Zoey?" he asked instead.

Charlie hesitated for a fraction of an instant. "Yes, sir."

Jed pounced. "What was that hesitation about?"

"Sir?"

"Don't 'sir' me, you hesitated. I heard you do it. Are you telling me you're _not_ excited about spending the evening with my daughter?"

"No, sir. I mean... I am excited, sir, yes."

"Oh, so you're excited, are you? _How_ excited?" he demanded suspiciously.

Charlie blinked. "Is there any safe way out of this conversation?"

"Not a chance, it's a one of the delightful side effects of dating one of my daughters." Jed wagged a finger at him. "I expect at least one of you to be within my line of sight at all times this evening," he ordered. "If both of you disappear for more than fifteen seconds, I'm sending the Secret Service."

He was joking. Mostly.

"I don't think Zoey would appreciate that very much, Mr. President."

No, probably not. Zoey might've always been a daddy's girl, but she'd also inherited her father's stubbornly independent streak. If she made her mind up to do something, then she was going ahead and doing it, to hell with the consequences.

He just had to make sure that getting her hands on Charlie wasn't one of those things. With Zoey away at college, they didn't get to see each other as much as they liked, and he had a niggling suspicion that if he turned his back for a few moments, they'd be all over each other.

Well, he'd soon put a stop to that. The most foolproof method would be to tail the young couple himself, but there was that minor little inconvenience of being the president to get in the way of that. Maybe if he enlisted Abbey...


	12. XII

** XII **

CJ surreptitiously adjusted the straps of her dress as she watched the party guests mill about. Stunning she might look, but considering there was nobody special on hand to look it for, dressing up was definite pain in the ass. The boys had to have a much easier time of it in their tuxes. And mighty fine they looked in them too - even Josh, who managed to look like he'd been wearing his for a week even though Donna hadn't let him touch it until five minutes before the party began.

The simple pale blue dress Donna herself wore couldn't be half as expensive as CJ's ensemble, but she managed to make it gorgeous anyway. It looked comfortable too, dammit.

CJ fidgeted, waiting for the speech to begin. The president was ready to make it, or would be, just as soon as he could be persuaded to let go of his wife. CJ was pleased on more than her professional account to see the First Couple looking very cosy this evening. Things had been strained for far too long ever since the president had decided to run for reelection, but now that he'd actually achieved it, the bridges had started to mend.

Charlie and Zoey were being incredibly cute, too. CJ smirked at the way they quietly held hands under the table, Charlie shooting occasional slightly nervous glances the president's way. They made an adorable couple, and the complications of working around Zoey's college commitments and Charlie's nightmare schedule didn't seem to have dented the relationship any.

She couldn't see Leo, but that was hardly a surprise - the Chief of Staff would take any excuse to work rather than party. Another absence, however, was more puzzling.

She nudged Josh. "Have you seen Toby?"

He shrugged expansively, still bouncy from his victory with the votes. CJ made a mental note to have Donna make sure he didn't touch any alcohol this evening. "Maybe he's talking to people about the Peterson thing."

"Yeah, but I wouldn't have thought he'd want to miss this. Not after all the effort he's put into rewriting it." God only knew why. "Unless there's a thing." She turned to Sam. "Is there a thing?"

Sam's shrug was much more subdued, and considerably less cheerful. "Not so far as I know. Not that he tells me anything."

Clearly, Sam's depression had not improved a great deal. But, dammit, this was her evening off. Personal problems could wait. She went back to contemplating Toby.

"Maybe he's been abducted by aliens," she mused.

Sam snorted, a little more bitterly than he might have done at one time. "Boy, that's gonna mess up their impressions of humanity."

"I just wondered why he was making such a big deal out of this speech. I mean who's in the audience, the Queen of England?" CJ couldn't even begin to guess who Toby was trying to impress; not least because Toby wasn't the kind to care about impressing anybody.

She caught the president out of the corner of her eye as he made to stand up, and nodded at him. "He's not gonna like, break into song or something, is he?"

"Maybe he'll do a couple verses of 'Happy Days Are Here Again'," suggested Josh. He opened his mouth, and CJ pointed at him warningly.

"Start singing, Joshua, and you'll discover some creative new uses for that bowtie of yours."

He closed his mouth.

"I'm just a little jittery, I guess," she admitted. "I mean, the vote turned out okay and the hostages got out alive... _something's_ gotta go wrong."

They all watched the president as he slipped on his glasses and quickly skimmed over his cue cards.

"Well, he hasn't fallen over yet," Josh observed.

"Yeah. I guess we're doing well."

* * *

Toby stood with his back against the wall, watching cigar smoke curl up into the night. He registered the sound of the door beside him, but didn't turn.

"Toby Ziegler." The voice, slightly cracked with age but still strong, was familiar even though he hadn't heard it for years. It had rung perfectly clearly in his mind the instant he'd seen the name on the guest list.

"Dr. Wilson," he nodded.

The frail, white-haired man who came to lean on the rail beside him wasn't quite the striding giant he remembered from his university days, but the intensity in his eyes was the same.

"I heard your speech," he observed.

"It was the president's speech," Toby corrected.

"You wrote it; most of it. I recognised you, you always did have a distinctive voice."

"So you always told me. As I recall, you also told me I'd never amount to anything if I didn't learn to use imagery to reinforce, not confuse." Toby took another puff of his cigar.

"Yes, you seem to have cured yourself of that. Mostly." The acerbic addition was as perfectly timed as it had been in all those lectures decades ago. Dr. Wilson had always been a master of scathing, no-holds-barred criticism, unprepared to cut either the worst or the best of his students any slack. Toby had always greatly admired that quality.

"Yes, it was a very fine speech, full of stirring words and grand sweeping ideas. You've found yourself a good orator in that president of yours, he knows how to use his material. It's a pity you didn't give him anything more meaningful to say."

Toby turned to meet his old mentor's steely gaze. Dr. Wilson shook his head sadly. "You used to be a revolutionary, Toby. What happened?"

"We're doing good things here," Toby told him quietly.

"You're running on the spot without moving."

He shrugged and half-smiled. "That's... the nature of government."

Wilson was unimpressed. "Well, change it."

"It's not that simple."

"You've got the ear of the president - make it that simple."

Toby smiled to himself, and looked at the ground. "I may have his ear, but the president has a mind of his own."

"Then make him use it." Wilson glared at him. "Your government is doing nothing, Toby, just sitting and spinning its wheels. I can't believe you fought your way through two incredibly tight elections just to preserve the status quo."

Toby had always greatly admired the man who'd played a part in shaping both his writing and his ideals - but, as with all the figures he respected, that wouldn't for a minute stop him from leaping into a full-throated argument. No, the reason that stopped him refuting his old mentor's words was much simpler.

He knew they had the ring of truth to them.

* * *

Charlie had to admit, this wasn't the worst evening he'd ever had. A fairly relaxed day, a cheerful president, a fancy dinner, and now he was dancing with Zoey Bartlet.

Admittedly, he was doing it under the threat of occasional glares from her father, and he'd probably be in trouble if tempted to close up the formal gap between their bodies if they danced, but still... dancing. And Zoey. They spoke all the time on the phone and they got together when they could, but what with his schedule and her security detail, they almost never got to spend a proper evening out like any normal couple.

Yes, this would have been a perfect evening... if not for the aforementioned glaring president.

"Your parents are watching us," he warned Zoey as they danced. She giggled.

"That's okay. My mom thinks we're cute."

"Yeah, and your father's thinking up good excuses to send me back to work."

"That's all right, I'll go with you," Zoey told him. She smirked. "All those empty offices..."

"Yeah, that's exactly why he hasn't done it yet," Charlie agreed.

Despite her watching parents, not to mention the watching press, Zoey tugged him a bit closer as they danced. It felt very comfortable and easy to let her head rest against his shoulder.

After a moment, he asked "Is your mother still bugging you about what you're gonna do after college?"

"Oh, is she ever," Zoey groaned. "I keep telling her, it's not like- I mean, I'm not like my sisters. Liz already had Annie by the time she was my age, and Ellie went to Medical School, so she already knew what she was gonna do... And it's not like I can just go out and get a job, you know? Because of dad and the Secret Service and everything..."

Charlie nodded sympathetically. "So, did you decide-?"

"No," she said fiercely. "No, no decisions. I don't want to talk about this now. Can we just dance, okay?"

"Okay," he agreed, and risked a quick kiss to the top of her head. The president couldn't be watching them _all_ the time, after all.

They just danced.

* * *

"Look at them. Aren't they cute?" Abbey smiled against her husband's shoulder.

Jed preferred to scowl. "Cute? Look at the way they're dancing! Why, when we were their age-"

"When we were their age, we were married and had Liz," she reminded him.

"Okay, bad example," he conceded. "But we always were advanced."

"Very advanced," she agreed, and gave him a quick kiss. Fairly chaste; she wasn't positive, but she thought there was possibly a rule against First Ladies jumping their husbands in front of witnesses. Unfortunately.

Not that her husband was necessarily in any condition to be jumped. Abbey was concerned to see how tired he seemed - he obviously hadn't paid a blind bit of notice when she ordered him to get some rest. He'd never have won any awards, but he'd always been a light-footed, fairly graceful dancer; surprising in a man so klutzy in other ways. Today, though, he was noticeably slow to react.

"Jed, you're dragging your feet," she observed worriedly.

He smiled faintly. "I'm doing the soft shoe shuffle."

Damn the man. Abbey had to smile back. "I'm fairly sure you're not."

"I could be," he shrugged.

"This is a waltz, Jed."

"I've always been adaptable."

"Are you tired, honey?" she prodded gently.

"I haven't been sleeping well," he admitted. "I miss you," he sighed.

It was hard to be mad at him for working too hard when he was being so adorable. "Well, I'm back now."

"I wish you didn't have to go away."

"Should've thought of that before you decided to run for president," Abbey reminded him lightly.

"Should've thought of a lot of things."

The softly sad statement unnerved her a little, but then his sober mood lifted and he smiled warmly at her. Her spine tingled, the same way it always had. Right the way back to the first time they'd ever danced, when they'd been younger even than Charlie and Zoey.

She was dancing with her husband, the man she still loved as fiercely as she had all those years ago. What else mattered?


	13. XIII

** XIII **

"Donnatella! Dance with me!" A very bright-eyed and hyperactive Josh Lyman bounced over to his assistant. Donna put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

"Joshua, have you been drinking?"

"Not yet!" he said cheerfully. "C'mon, Donna, dance with me!"

"Oh my God." Even as he dragged her towards the dance floor, she turned to look at CJ and pulled a face. "Can you imagine what he's gonna be like _after_ the bill's been passed?"

"Good luck," CJ called after her, sincerely. "Boy are you gonna need it," she muttered into her wine glass, as an afterthought. She had a suspicion she was now a little tipsy, but what the hell, it was a party, wasn't it? She turned to Sam beside her. "Hey, Sparkles, wanna dance?"

"Uh, no, I think I'll pass," he said hastily, managing to summon the ghost of a smile from whatever morose place he was currently inhabiting. He glanced at his watch. "We've been here a while now, I think I'm gonna go home."

"Suit yourself," she shrugged, the sudden movement setting her to wobbling just a little. Damn heels. "Guess I'll have to go find Toby."

That _did_ make Sam laugh, though it was more a snort of amused disbelief than anything else. "You expect to get Toby to dance with you in front of people?" he asked.

"No, but I'm gonna ask and watch him squirm."

"Okay." Apparently Sam didn't see the beauty in this form of entertainment. But then, when it came to making Toby squirm, there were very few people who could master it well enough to call it an art form. And since Andy Wyatt wasn't here and the First Lady was busy with her husband, she considered it pretty much her sacred duty.

With a quick nod her way, Sam set his glass down on a nearby table and left, threading his way through the crowd. CJ watched, wishing she knew how to fix what was wrong with him. She would have thought that a political victory would help, remind him that sometimes they really _could_ accomplish something - but he still seemed as depressed as ever, and...

And she was way too drunk to think about this now. She finished the rest of her wine in a quick gulp, and started looking for Toby.

* * *

Despite the lateness of the hour and the not inconsiderable amount of alcohol swirling around his system, Sam found himself somehow drawn to back to the bar. It was dim and nearly empty, although the bartender gave him a nod of recognition. The only other people in the place were a young black woman sadly contemplating her martini, and an old man in the corner nursing a pint.

Sam settled at the bar and drank a single beer, alone.

When it was done, he stood up and left, feeling obscurely disappointed.

* * *

The brief stroll across the college campus to her room was the perfect moonlit walk. Dizzy memories of dancing and a wonderful meal, stars in the deep black sky above, and her boyfriend at her side, his fingers entwined with hers.

And, of course, her Secret Service escort shadowing at a discreet distance.

Admittedly, they doing their best not to be too obvious, but it wasn't as if she could forget they were there. After all, she was Zoey Bartlet, and they were _always_ there. She and Charlie had been together for four years now, if it still counted as together when you had to fight so hard to find a few minutes where you could both be in the same place. But in all that time, they'd never been able to have what she would consider a real date.

They could go to dinner - if the Secret Service had checked the place out fully and their table was kept under careful observation. They could watch movies - provided they either watched them on video, or at the White House cinema under the watchful eye of her father. They could walk along the street holding hands - provided her escort were there every step of the way to watch for any Neo-Nazis who might take objection to the sight.

Zoey sighed.

Charlie, attuned to her in way that she still found almost startling, picked up on it and squeezed her hand. She smiled up at him, and tried to pretend that it was just the two of them, that nobody was shadowing them, that they didn't _need_ anybody to shadow them. That they were just a normal couple.

She managed to keep up the pretence until they were up in her dorm room, snatching a few precious moments alone. Just a few moments, because after all she was the president's daughter, and it wouldn't do to give anybody the wrong impression, because you always had to worry about _appearances_...

She'd had enough.

"It's all so, so... I don't know!" Zoey burst out angrily. She buried her face against the pillow.

"Well, I don't know either if you won't tell me," Charlie pointed out. She looked up at him where he stood by the door.

"You could actually, you know, sit on the bed next to me," she told him pointedly.

"No I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because if I do, your father's leaping in the nearest helicopter and coming here especially to kick my ass."

Zoey couldn't help grinning at that - probably not exaggerated - mental picture. "Yeah. You think they could land it on top of the building? That would be pretty cool." She ought to be able to come to college in a helicopter. Hey, if she had to put up with all the trappings of being a First Daughter, she should at least be getting some fun out of them.

Charlie quirked an eyebrow. "It's nice to know that you value my ass so highly."

"Hey, it's a very nice ass," she told him, enjoying the embarrassed way he looked down at the floor.

Charlie compromised, and came over to crouch beside her where she lay slumped on the bed. "What's wrong, Zoey?" he asked gently.

"I just, I just... I don't know," she said, frustrated. "I just feel like, you know... what am I doing here? What am I even _doing_ here?"

"You're going to college and getting your degree," Charlie pointed out sensibly.

"I know! But what _for_? What am I gonna do with it when I get it?"

"Whatever you want," he shrugged.

"I don't know what I want!" She looked at him. "What about you? What are you gonna do when dad's not the president anymore?"

He could only shrug again. "I don't know," he admitted.

"Well, there you go!" said Zoey. "There's all this... all this _future_ out there, and what happens next? Where do we go, what do we do? Aren't you worried?"

Charlie considered that for a moment. "No," he said finally.

"Why not?" she demanded, pushing up into a sitting position.

He looked at her earnestly. "Because wherever I go and whatever I end up doing, I know I'm gonna be with you."

"_Charlie_." She couldn't resist flinging her arms around him and giving him a squeeze, he was so adorable.

"No, I mean it," he said, next to her ear. "Zoey Patricia Bartlet, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want us to be together forever. I want us to be married, I want us to live together, I want..."

Zoey froze suddenly, and pulled back to give him a suspicious look. "Charlie... is it me, or did you just propose?"

Charlie blinked, and looked surprised. "You know what? I think I just did."

Zoey couldn't help it. She burst into gales of laughter, and hugged him again.

"You know, hysterical laughter is the exact reaction that every boy dreams of to that suggestion," he said wryly.

"No, Charlie!" She sat back, wiping her eyes. "It's just... God, I love you so much." She flung her arms around him again.

"I love you too, Zoey," he said quietly, and for a moment they just stayed that way, in the shelter of their shared embrace.

Finally, though, far too soon, she had to pull back and let reality filter in. "We can't get married, Charlie."

"I know," he admitted seriously. They both knew the harsh realities of how it would be if the two of them sealed their relationship in the glare of the media spotlight. Her father's overprotectiveness would be the _least_ of their worries.

They both knew it... but that didn't make it any less heartbreaking.

"But we could get engaged," she said, to wipe the sad look from his eyes. She realised. "We _are_ engaged! Charlie, you just asked me to marry you."

"You didn't say yes yet," he pointed out.

Zoey rolled her eyes. "Fine."

"I ask you to marry me, all you can say is 'fine'?"

She grinned. "Okay?"

"Zoey."

"All right? Sure? Yep?"

"See, and now you're just downplaying the gravity of the situation," he rumbled against her neck. His closeness made her feel deliciously warm, and he pulled away all too soon. "I should probably go."

"Why?" she demanded. He smiled gently at her.

"'Cause otherwise, your father might suddenly end up with a _real_ reason to kick my ass, and I don't think 'we just secretly got engaged' is gonna cut it."

Zoey's face fell briefly. "We can't tell anybody, can we?" she realised sadly.

"I'm sorry," said Charlie, and he kissed her forehead. "I wish I could do this properly. I wish I could buy you a ring to wear and shout it from all the rooftops like I want to."

"I don't need a ring," Zoey told him. "I've got a promise."

The memory of his brilliant smile lit up the room long after he was gone.


	14. XIV

** XIV **

**FRIDAY:**

Donna had never really had much occasion to look after a hyperactive small child, but she suspected that if she was ever called upon, she'd be more than amply equipped to handle one. Perhaps as many as six at the same time. And a couple of big bouncy dogs. _Anything_ would be easy after Josh.

He paced around the confines of his own office, not unlike a goldfish endlessly circling his bowl - if said goldfish had an irritating habit of picking up random objects and turning them over in his hands. And then putting them down in some place where they did not belong, but she would nonetheless be expected to locate them at a later date.

So far, he'd tripped over fourteen different objects - some of them more than once - walked into his desk twice, and hurt his hand thumping it against the wall; in anger or in triumph, she could no longer recall.

And they were only up to the Rs.

Josh stopped pacing for a brief moment and made a wordless sound of frustration. "Why is this _taking_ so long?"

"At a guess? 'Cuz there are, you know, quite a few members of Congress?"

"Why can't they only show the interesting ones?"

"Oh, right. I'll get on the phone to the people organising the roll-call and tell them to make us a tape of Josh Lyman's personal highlights." In his distracted state, it took him a moment to realise that this wasn't a viable serious suggestion.

"You're not helping," he said accusingly, as he resumed pacing.

"It's all part of my dastardly plan," Donna offered, from her relatively safe vantage point of the doorway.

"You have a dastardly plan?"

"Yes. I'm trying to make your brain explode. In the ensuing confusion, I'll be able to take over your job 'cause nobody else knows where you keep anything."

"Well, this explains a great deal." Josh's attention was caught by the television, and he snapped "Oh, give over, Salisbury, everybody _knows_ you're voting nay."

"Mr. Salisbury of Virginia votes nay," supplied the TV helpfully. Donna gave him a look.

"Why are you even watching this, if you already know how everybody's gonna vote?"

"To make sure everybody does what I told them!"

"Well, it's good to know megalomania isn't dead," she observed dryly.

"I'm not megalomaniacal! I simply- shut up," he reversed himself mid-sentence. Donna raised her eyebrows.

"You simply shut up? Well, this is a novelty."

"Shh! This is Tavestock." Josh came to a halt in front of the TV and meshed his fingers together, although he probably would have loudly denied it if anybody suggested the posture had anything to do with prayer. He positively jiggled up and down on the spot.

"Mr. Tavestock. Mr. Tavestock of North Carolina votes nay."

The frenetic ball of motion that was Josh came to an abrupt stop. The kind of stop that was usually achieved by crashing directly into a brick wall, at speed.

Donna took a tentative step towards him. "Josh-?"

Ignoring her, he walked straight past out into the bullpen, a zombie-like look of disbelief stamped across his face.

* * *

CJ found herself somehow wandering the corridors of the White House. Tavestock. They'd lost Tavestock.

This was some stupid thing with her being out of the loop again, right? They'd found the final vote from a different and more trustworthy source, but nobody had bothered to tell her. Yeah, that had to be it.

She met Sam coming out of the communications bullpen, his pained grimace for once replaced with a wide-eyed look of surprise. "What happened with Tavestock?" She could only shrug.

Toby followed him out, a dark scowl drawn across his features. "What the hell does he think he's doing?" CJ couldn't decide whether he meant Tavestock, Josh, or possibly even God. It certainly seemed like somebody Up There was jerking them around.

Without needing to discuss it, they all headed towards Josh's office. As he emerged from the bullpen, they all leapt on him.

"Josh, what-?"

"What the hell happened to-?"

"When did Tavestock-?"

He walked straight past all of them, barely seeming to register their presence. They looked at each other in confusion as Leo came pounding up the corridor.

"Okay, somebody tell me I'm hallucinating, because I sure as _hell_ didn't really just see Alan Tavestock vote nay on Healthcare."

Nobody answered him. A timid Donna appeared in the doorway and gazed nervously at the four of them. Leo turned on her. "Where did Josh go?" he demanded furiously.

CJ wouldn't have thought anybody could look more worried than Donna had at that exact moment, but somehow she managed to surpass herself. "I have no idea," she admitted.

* * *

Josh blasted past the snooty secretary without waiting to be acknowledged, and slammed through the door into Tavestock's office. The Congressman was already behind his desk, perhaps having hurried back for this very confrontation. He lowered his feet from where they rested on the corner of his desk, and smiled coldly.

"Ah, Josh. I'd say this is a surprise, but... it really isn't." The smile became a smirk. "Yes, this has all been very predictable. Unlike, I rather suspect, _your_ morning."

Josh was almost too apoplectic to string a complete sentence together. "You sabotaged the vote!" he managed to finally squeak out.

Tavestock laughed in his face, shaking his head in disbelief. "I knew you were arrogant, Josh, but this is beyond even you. You _seriously_ thought I would vote your way after you strung me out?"

"What the hell is this?" Josh demanded furiously.

"This, Mr. Lyman, is what you call poetic justice," the Congressman told him dryly. "It's not _personal_, Josh," he added sarcastically. "Sometimes the cards come down against you... and you have to take a hit."

The sound of his own words parroted back at him sent him over the edge. "This is it!" Josh shouted, getting right up in the bigger man's face. "This is the _last_ game you've played with us, Tavestock! How long you think you're gonna last in this town without the backing of your own administration? How about we revoke your access? How about we cut off your funding? How about we reopen that investigation, and this time we keep it open until it _finds_ something?"

Tavestock's smile shut down into an icy mask. "How about you leave my office, Mr. Lyman, before I have you thrown out by security."

There must have been _some_ small force of self-preservation at work, to stop him from giving in to his first instinct and sinking his fist right into the Congressman's fleshy, self-satisfied face. Josh stepped back, shaking his head.

"You think you can play games with us, Tavestock? It's about time you learned where the limits of your powers lie."

The Congressman leaned forward. "On the contrary, Josh," he said sharply. "I think it's time you learned where yours do. In case you've forgotten, I'm a member of the United States Congress, and I'm not beholden to you or yours."

It was either leave or start a brawl, and Josh suddenly found himself sapped of all energy. The bill he'd spent his heart and soul to secure had crashed and burned around him. As he turned to leave, Tavestock's mocking laughter chased him out. "Every vote counts, Josh," he said smugly. "Maybe you should have remembered that before you hung me out to dry."

* * *

Josh had no memory of leaving the building, or of walking through the streets of DC to wherever this was that he'd ended up. He wasn't aware of the people passing by, or even of the bench he'd somehow found to collapse on. All he could feel was the crushing weight of his failure.

He'd sweated for this bill. He'd jumped through hoops and brokered deals, called in every last favour the administration could hope to hang on. And it had all come to nothing.

How could he ever have been so mind-numbingly _stupid_? What had happened to his ability to judge people? How could he not have seen Tavestock's betrayal coming?

He'd sworn to Leo that the bill was theirs, that he could pull it through. He'd fired up the senior staff, and convinced CJ to tell the press that it was going through. He'd been so smugly proud of his scraped victory, that vital one vote margin.

Well, that vital one vote margin had gone the other way, and now it was all finished.

The bill.

His political reputation, and the influence that came with it.

And maybe, just maybe, the very last chance the Bartlet administration had of rescuing their second term from the ashes.


	15. XV

** XV **

Dammit, why did he always have to be the bearer of bad news?

Leo knew the way the president's shoulders had slumped and the smile fled out of his eyes was going to haunt him.

It wasn't fair. How long had they had? _One_ evening. One goddamn evening, when they'd all been optimistic and the president had been glowing with the nearness of his family, and it had seemed like everything was going to be like old times. Then, _bam_! One dead bill. And a whole lot of dead hopes.

At least the president still had Abbey's comforting shoulder to lean on - for a few short days before she flew out, anyway. Leo didn't even have that kind of support to guide him through the depression and frustration. He was just going to have to resort to a tried and tested substitute.

Finding somebody to shout at.

Since his wandering deputy was currently outside his grasp, he had to resort to snapping at the first warm body to step too close. In this case, Toby.

Toby had never been much of a one to cling to sentiment in any case. So the bill they'd sweated blood and tears for had been casually blown out of the water by a single errant Congressman on a revenge mission? Threaten dark and lingering punishments, and then move on.

"Leo!" With less than the best timing in the world, Toby came striding towards him just as he emerged from dropping his lead balloon in the Oval Office.

"Toby."

As an incredibly talented writer, Toby Ziegler had an amazing gift for picking up and analysing the subtle nuances of tones of voice. And when he was on a mission, he had an equally impressive talent for ignoring them.

"We need to move forward on the Sex-Ed thing. We've been sitting on this way too long, and it's time we actually got out there and-"

Leo's jaw dropped in disbelief. "Toby, did you _notice_ what happened this morning? Were you actually _there_?"

"We lost the bill," Toby noted.

"Toby, we lost a hell of a lot more than a Healthcare Bill! We lost credibility. A whole hunk of credibility. In fact, I'm not sure we even _had_ as much credibility as we just lost."

Toby rubbed his forehead. "Leo, we can't back off on this now. We need-"

"Toby, we're not 'backing off' on this. Backing off would pretty much imply that we were going forward at some point, and-"

Margaret appeared in the doorway. "Leo."

"Hold on." He turned back to Toby.

"I want to take this to the president," the Communications Director insisted stubbornly.

Leo shook his head. "You're not taking it to the president, Toby. Yeah, he'll want to do the right thing, but you and I both know he _can't_ do the right thing, so don't try to put it in front of him!" The last thing the president needed right now was a new helping of frustration on top of the taste he'd already had.

With his words still ringing in the hallway, and several frightened staffers looking their way, he turned back to Margaret.

"Josh is in your office," she said, taking a nervous step backwards.

Ah, good. Somebody he could _really_ lay the blame on.

* * *

"How could you _possibly_ have been so _stupid_?"

Josh flinched under the verbal assault.

Leo glowered at him. "Tell me you didn't _actually_ accost Alan Tavestock in his office and threaten him."

"Leo-"

"Tell me you didn't _actually_ chase down a member of the United States House of Representatives and threaten him with retribution for voting against us."

"Leo, I-"

"And tell me, tell me, you didn't _really_ shout at the top of your lungs in front of several witnesses that you were going to use the White House's influence to reopen a closed financial investigation and - and here I quote - 'keep it open until it finds something'?"

As Leo's eyes bored through him like accusing lasers, Josh decided that now was not the time to point out that there was almost definitely something for such an investigation to find. Nor was it the time to point out that he'd been far too steamed up to even notice if anyone in the Congressman's office might have been listening in.

"Leo, he played me!" he objected, still boiling with fury at the betrayal.

"Yeah, he did!" Leo retorted. "You got screwed over. That was bad. Do you have any idea how much worse you just made it?"

He had a sinking suspicion he did, but it had never been much in his nature to meekly keep his mouth shut. "Leo, he pulled his support at the last minute _just_ to embarrass us. No other motive! He didn't give a damn about this bill one way or the other, he just wanted us to fall on our faces!"

"Yeah, and as if that wasn't enough you had to go and do a triple somersault for him," Leo growled at him. "Do you have any idea how bad this looks, Josh? Do you have any idea how it'll play in the media if he decides to pull the trigger on 'Bartlet Staff Threaten Blackmail Tactics'?"

"He sabotaged our bill, Leo," Josh said more quietly.

"Yeah, he did." The Chief of Staff's volume dropped to match his, but that didn't make his words any less cutting. "He dug you a hole, and you didn't just fall down it, you hit the bottom and started tunnelling."

This time, Josh _did_ have the sense to keep silent. He looked at the carpet, and wondered if Leo was about to fire him. He'd once promised that as long as he had a job, Josh had a job. Was he regretting it? Josh didn't quite dare look him in the eye to find out.

"You're going to the Congressional fundraiser tomorrow night."

His head snapped back up. "What?"

Leo glared at him. "Tomorrow. Charity firework display. You are going to be there. You are going to mingle. And you are going to suck the hell up to every damn Congressman in the place!"

He couldn't believe it. "I have to suck up to Congress because Tavestock pulled the rug out from under my feet?" he demanded.

"You have to suck up to Congress, Josh, because you were so incredibly stupid today I'd have every justification in choosing to fire your ass!" He'd been thinking it, but it still caught him off guard to hear the words come out of Leo's mouth. "Now you are going to be there, you are going to schmooze a large number of important Democratic Congressmen, and maybe, just maybe, if you don't screw _that_ up, Tavestock won't bring the media cycle from hell down on our backs. Clear?"

Josh didn't dare do anything else but nod.

* * *

"Mom, I- Okay, mom, I'm going now." Donna quickly hung up the phone as a familiar suit hove into view. "Josh!" She sprang to her feet.

Ever since a certain a day in May several years ago, she'd had a whole new perspective on what constituted a 'worst day ever'; but this one was definitely shaping up to be pretty high on the list. First the bombshell with the vote, then Josh had disappeared... and then her mother had called her up and refused to get off the phone. She was going to pay a high price for hanging up mid why-aren't-you-coming-home-for-your-birthday? rant, but right now she didn't care.

Josh looked awful. Of course, from the point of view of someone like, say, her mother, Josh quite often looked awful. Generally, though, he wore it well, rumpled clothes and scruffy hair somehow an extension of the electric, chaotic energy that drove him.

Right now, the only thing that was electric about him was the fact that he looked as if he was on his way to the electric chair.

Donna had been half-terrified when he'd walked out like that. The complete lack of expression on his face had sent her reeling into memories of that terrible Christmas after the shooting. But now he was back, and he at least seemed to be still in one piece, and she was so relieved that she wasn't even going to yell at him.

"Josh, where the hell did you go? I was worried!"

Oh, wait. Maybe she was.

"I went to see Congressman Tavestock," he said dully.

Uh-oh.

"Josh-" she said warningly. He held up a hand to cut her off.

"I've had this lecture already." He slumped into the chair in his office. Donna followed him in and shut the door behind her, leaning against it. After all, wasn't that her job? Keeping the world away from Josh when he didn't want to see it.

"What happened?" she asked sympathetically.

Josh grimaced. "I said some stupid things."

"Imagine that."

"Don't-" He didn't finish the protest, but Donna heeded it anyway. He wasn't in any mood to be teased over this. She moved closer, and sat on the edge of the desk to peer at him worriedly.

"Josh, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." An exchange about as automatic - and every bit as meaningful - as the "good morning"s they might trade when they arrived in the office. Not that they often did; the complex thread of Josh-and-Donna conversation moved to its own rhythms, a mix of verbal barbs and playful affection that threw most outsiders for a loop.

It was an intricate dance, and one that could get fairly vicious when something was in the air to throw the relationship off. But even when the two of them were back in their own unique version of harmony, prying problems out of Josh was like trying to get a small child to let go of its security blanket.

Very much like a small child, actually, complete with pouting, sulks, tantrums, and not-at-all-subtle subject changes. But some masochistic instinct which refused to learn kept her prodding. Maybe it was training from growing up with She Who Will Not Be Argued With for a mother.

"Did you talk to Leo?"

"Mostly I listened." She found that hard to believe. "Well, actually, mostly he shouted."

Now that was easier to believe. But still... she frowned. "Josh, he can't think this was your fault." Leo might be apoplectic now, but he'd soon cool off and recognise that they'd all be blindsided by Tavestock, not just Josh. After all, it was Josh who'd insisted all along that they shouldn't go to him.

Josh looked up at her. "The bill? Not so much. The things I said to Tavestock..."

"It can't have been that bad," she said, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. And thinking about secret plans to fight inflation.

He smiled wryly, without any of his customary humour. "Well, I may have... accidentally implied that the White House plants criminal evidence against Congressmen it doesn't like."

Oh, yes, this was a Josh Lyman special all right. She squeezed his arm in silent sympathy. The mocking could come at a later, safer time.

He looked up at her and mustered the ghost of a smile. "Leo says I've gotta go to this thing Saturday night. The Congressional fireworks display."

Donna's organised brain immediately called up a whole file of information about what the event was in aid of and who would be attending, but she suspected Josh didn't want to hear it right now. "Want me to come with you?"

Josh shook his head. "No. I'll go. Get it over with, pretend it never happened."

"Okay."

He gave her a fragile smile of thanks, and for a moment she laid her head on his shoulder before they both went back to work.


	16. XVI

** XVI **

Toby chased CJ through the corridors several times before he actually managed to catch up with her. Finally he caught her in her office and she looked up at him over her glasses.

"Okay, what d'you want to talk about?"

"Sex."

CJ blinked. "Well, congratulations, you got my attention. Is this a suggestion, or-?"

"The Sex-Ed initiative."

"Ah. Toby, didn't we have this exact same fight on our hands with the abstinence-plus report?" she demanded.

"Yes. You know why? Because ignoring the problem didn't make it go away!"

"Toby," she said warningly.

"We need to get aggressive with this," he said forcefully.

"We need to, but we're not going to." Sex-Ed would be a tough sell even with a much stronger approval rating than they had now. As it was, they'd probably be laughed out of Washington for even trying.

But since when was unpopularity enough to dissuade Toby? "This is a big issue. We're long overdue on tackling this. What happened to all the big things we were gonna do when it came to our second term?"

"Reality happened," CJ told him pointedly. "Toby, you _know_ what a narrow scrape-"

"Well, what was the point of scraping in at all if we're not gonna do anything now we're here?" he demanded, with rising agitation. "Leo won't even, won't even let me take it to the president-"

"Because the president will want to move forward on this, and he can't. And then we'll have a cranky president." And a cranky president was definitely pretty high on her list of things she didn't want to have to deal with right now. All of them currently residing a long way below the enormous faux pas of the administration swearing they were putting a radical bill through and then failing miserably to do so.

And, apparently, there was also a chance that Josh Lyman had awoken the ire of high-profile Congressional Democrats.

She had a headache.

"We should-"

"Toby, just... not now, okay?"

Toby sighed heavily, and then nodded. He left, and CJ sighed herself, rubbing her temples.

Turned out it wasn't going to be Josh's triumphant mood that made this day unbearable.

* * *

"Sam." Toby tapped rapidly on the doorframe and looked at his deputy, seated staring at a report as if he wasn't taking the words in. "I need you in on the Sex-Ed thing."

Sam blinked at him blearily, as if it was an effort to raise his head. "Why?" he asked vaguely.

"To... work on the Sex-Ed thing?" Toby tried. He was beginning to wonder what planet his deputy was living on lately. Quite apart from being unable to concentrate on his work, he was moody, brusque, and prone to sudden outbursts of frustrated anger. These were all qualities Toby had long considered to be virtues in himself, but in the younger man they were new, and somewhat troubling.

"No, seriously, why?" Sam sat back in his chair, and fixed his boss with a scowl. "What are we even looking at this for? What's the point?"

This was beginning to sound suspiciously like philosophical questions on the nature of existence, something Toby had little time for, especially when his deputy was supposed to be working. But he bit back the automatic sarcastic remark, remembering his old tutor's comments of the night before. They'd drifted too far from their original revolutionary purpose in the name of compromise and concession; maybe Sam had been feeling it, too.

He made an effort to take a deep breath and give the question the contemplation it deserved. "This is... this is important, Sam. We need to, to educate our children about these things. It's the right thing to do."

He was brought up short when Sam just snorted harshly at his words. "The right thing? What good's that gonna do?"

Toby was caught scrabbling for words, feeling absurdly like a parent who'd suddenly discovered his kids had stopped believing in Santa without telling him. Since when did Sam not care about doing the right thing? When had the magic power of those words trickled away?

"Is this about this morning's bill?" he hazarded, after a moment.

Sam laughed quietly, and shook his head. "This is about everything, Toby, haven't you noticed?" He stood up. "I'm going for coffee. Excuse me."

Toby automatically stepped aside to let him through the doorway, and was left staring after him as he made his way over to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup with sharp, angry movements.

There was obviously something very wrong with Sam. And he had a sinking feeling that he might have left noticing that fact entirely too late.

* * *

Jed rubbed his eyes tiredly as he leafed through yet another report. It was hard to muster any enthusiasm when the only thing of any value they'd been doing lately had just been rudely stomped on.

A lot had been riding on the Healthcare Bill, and not just the potential improvements it would have made to people's lives. Oh, Congress was never an easy gauntlet to run, and one lost bill, however big, was not enough to kill an administration. But it was a harsh blow, at a time when the last thing they needed was harsh blows. A victory would have been a springboard to build back up to better things; instead, they had political embarrassment to contend with, and another long season of scrabbling around in the dirt to build up their influence from scratch.

His first instinct had been to shout his frustration at Leo, but the bitter resignation in his Chief of Staff's face had dissuaded him. Then he'd wanted desperately to vent at Josh, but by the time the younger man had returned to the building, he'd reconsidered. Shouting wouldn't make anyone feel better, least of all himself. These days it felt like a major effort just to hold an ordinary conversation, let alone a screaming match.

Some aspects of his life, however, could never be a chore. He gave his first genuine smile since the news when Abbey appeared in his doorway.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself." As she crossed the room to perch on the arm of his chair, he folded the report shut and set it aside, laying his head gratefully against her shoulder.

Abbey absently played with his hair and smiled down at him. "How're you doing, babe?"

He felt the tension begin to ebb out of him as he rested his chin on her hand. "I've been better," he admitted softly, closing his eyes.

"Bad day?" She kissed the top of his head.

"Not the worst, but..." He nodded without bothering to raise his head, and she laughed. She tilted his face up to look at her, and waited for his eyes to open.

"You should get some sleep," she said seriously, looking at him with some concern.

"It's early," he pointed out.

"You're tired."

"I'm always tired." It was both the truth and an automatic objection. There was always more work to do, and no matter how late he retired, he always felt guilty for abandoning it, even if only until the next morning.

Abbey curled her fingers through his hair, and smiled. "Come to bed, Jed," she insisted. He smirked.

"Ah, now I see your plan," he rumbled. "You're just trying to lure me away from my work so you can have your wicked way with me."

It was impossible to take any slight to his dignity when her throaty chuckle was so wonderful to listen to. "Jed, honey, I don't think you're in much of a state to be having your wicked way with anybody," she chided.

Probably true, but he was sure he felt more than up to some semi-wicked snuggling. "What's the matter, afraid you can't handle me?" he teased.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure I can _handle_ you any time I like," she said archly, and he decided that, dammit, wicked-way-having surely couldn't be _that_ out of the question. He leaned forward to give her a kiss.

Abbey let it linger for just sweetly long enough, and then laughed and straightened up. "No getting fresh in the Oval Office," she chided, but she was smiling while she did it.

"You have no sense of adventure," he grumbled jokingly, standing up.

"And you have no sense of your own limitations," she said, linking her arm through his. Oh, it felt good to have his wife by his side again.

"That's why you love me," he told her as they headed for the door.

"Because you're arrogant, swollen-headed and egotistical?"

"And cute. You forgot cute."

"Of course. How could I forget cute?" She laid a quick kiss on his cheek as they exited the Oval, and he noticed a couple of staffers smile and quickly look away, affording the First Couple what little they could give in the way of privacy. He didn't mind if they all stared; all they would see was what they already knew, that he loved his wife as strongly and as deeply as he'd ever loved anything. Other occupants of this much-vaunted office might have worn their trophy marriages as a matter of convenience, but Jed and Abbey Bartlet refused to settle for anything less than the real thing.

Charlie leapt to his feet, a slight smirk pasted over his own features. However, Jed was suddenly in too cheerful a frame of mind to try and wipe it off. "Take an early night, Charlie," he tossed over his shoulder as he and his wife set off arm in arm for the Residence.

Healthcare Bill be damned, it could still be a good day if he wanted it to be.

* * *

Donna leaned her head against the doorframe and watched her boss for a moment. Josh brushed his hair back tiredly as he peered at the small print on a document, seemingly unaware of her presence. He'd barely spoken two words to her or anyone else, throwing himself into the kind of banal paperwork that he'd normally fight with every means at his disposal to avoid doing. Nobody had come by to commiserate; they were all too busy fighting the aftermath of the vote's loss to worry about its architect's mental state. But maybe it didn't matter, because Josh wouldn't have spoken to them anyway.

"Josh." It took a long moment for him to look up.

"Donna." He managed a weary smile.

"You should go home," she told him. For all the good it would do.

"I will."

"I mean now."

"I'll go soon." He smiled at her again. "You might as well go now. I haven't got anything else for you to do."

She hated this. It was so much worse than when Josh was being snarky and unreasonable. When Josh started being gentle and considerate, it meant he'd stopped being the bouncy, egotistical boss she knew and turned into the fragile, quietly sad stranger who inhabited the same shell. Donna had seen that side of him on more than one occasion, but she never knew how to break her way through it to the insecurities beneath.

"Josh," she said. But she didn't have anything to add to that, and Josh just held her gaze for a long moment and then turned back to his work.


	17. XVII

** XVII **

Zoey tugged open the door, and then beamed with delight. "Hey, Charlie! What are you doing here?"

He smiled in moved in on her, forcing her to back up into the room. "Figured I'd come check on my..." he lowered his voice with a wary glance at the agent across the hall; "fiancée." Zoey bit her lip, but was unable to stop the huge grin that split her face.

"C'm'ere, you." She tugged him all the way inside and shut the door behind him.

"You know, those guys across there are gonna be wondering what we're up to in here, you grabbing me like that," he smiled.

"Let 'em wonder," she shrugged. "Seriously, Charlie, what are you doing here? You _never_ get off work this early."

"Your father gave me the rest of the evening off," he told her. She gave him a disbelieving look.

"Dad? Gave you time off? In what alternate universe?"

"Well, your mother's home, and I guess he wanted to-"

Zoey quickly clapped her hands over her ears. "Trauma! Trauma! Childhood trauma. Go no further into this conversation!" Charlie smirked, damn him. Her parents were quite bad enough right there in front of her without Charlie getting in on the act.

Still, mental images or not, an evening with Charlie was too good an opportunity to pass up. "I'm glad you're here," she admitted. "Sit down." She pulled him over to sit on the bed beside her.

"Okay, now we're doing this and your father's actually still in the country," he noted, seeming actually just a tiny bit serious in his concern.

"Will it be okay if I promise not to ravish you?" Zoey asked.

Charlie grinned at her. "Well, I guess I'll have to take your word for it." She gave him a light kiss on the lips.

"See? Barely any ravishing at all."

He gave her a fond look that turned her knees to jelly, and then suddenly fumbled in the inner pocket of his jacket. "Oh, hey. I got something for you."

"Is this something that my dad would disapprove of?" she teased.

"No." He reconsidered. "Well, he probably would at that. Close your eyes."

"_Charlie_," she objected, sticking out her lower lip.

"Close your eyes." She did so. "Now hold out your hand."

"I'm not _twelve_, Charlie," Zoey said as she complied.

"And that expression really shows it, too. Keep your eyes closed," he cautioned.

"They're closed, already!"

She waited for what seemed like a very long time. "Okay, this isn't gonna be, like, Jello or sheep's eyeballs or something, is it?" she demanded. "'Cause I'm-" She gasped as something cold touched her hand, then registered that it was metal. Zoey's eyes flew open, and she looked with awe at what lay in her palm. "It's a ring!"

"It's an engagement ring." He grinned shyly. "I got one too." He opened his hand to show a ring that was the twin of hers.

"Oh, Charlie!" She leapt for him, and squeezed him until they were both giggling and short of breath.

"I thought you promised not to ravish me?" he asked her as she backed off and reverently slid the ring over her finger.

"Charlie, it's beautiful!" Zoey's face fell. "But we can't wear them. Charlie-"

But her boyfriend - no, _fiancé_ - remained undaunted. "I got you something for that, too." He produced two long, fine silver chains. "One for me, and one for you."

Zoey gave a not-very-dignified squeal, and lifted her hair to carefully slip the chain around her neck. When she looked up, her heart thudded in her chest to see Charlie unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt to lower the ring down inside it. She decided that if it meant she got to see a fair proportion of Charlie's chest, this direction in ring-wearing was definitely the way to go.

"You're just trying to get me to ravish you there, aren't you?" she demanded, to cover the fiery blush that tinted her cheeks.

Charlie's answering grin was decidedly devilish. "Well, I guess you unravelled my cunning plan. Is it working?"

"Maybe." She leaned forward to give him a long kiss, planting her hands against the bare flesh of his shoulders. Mmm, she could get used to this...

It was a long time later - and far too soon - when Charlie finally broke the kiss. "This is turning into one of those times where I should go, isn't it?" he admitted.

"No!" She didn't want him to go. "No, Charlie, stay. For a while," she amended, when he looked ready to protest that he couldn't.

"Okay." He kissed her again.

When they came up for air, Zoey admitted "Okay. Maybe you should at least do your shirt up."

This whole non-ravishing thing was turning out to be a lot more difficult than it looked.

* * *

This time, Sam wasn't drinking beer.

In fact, he'd half forgotten what he was drinking. The bartender, after the first couple of shots, had taken the hint and kept them coming.

He was well on his way to being completely buzzed, and it wasn't nearly as satisfying as he'd hoped. What cruel quirk of fate had decided that he be the kind of drunk who brooded over things rather than forgot them?

Like the Healthcare Bill. Oh, Toby was hopelessly naïve if he truly believed that their latest failure was the cause of Sam's depression, but it definitely managed to squat in the middle of it all like a particularly ugly troll. It felt like a symbol of... something. Something to do with trying hard and getting nowhere that he was too drunk to condense into a neat little pithy saying. But then, apparently he'd lost that art quite some time ago.

Maybe he'd be able to find amnesia at the bottom of the next glass of whatever it was he was drinking.

"Hey." He didn't even look up as his drinking buddy of prior days dropped into the seat across from him. "I missed you yesterday night." Steve sounded concerned. Well, why not? His friends didn't even notice there was anything wrong, so it made sense that someone who was practically a stranger would. Symmetry. Something to do with things being back-to-front. Some kind of metaphor for... something else.

Yup, still drunk.

Apparently he'd missed the acceptable window for framing a response, had he been able to remember the question, as Steve leaned over and picked up one of the empty shot glasses to give it a concerned sniff. "What are you drinking?" he asked.

"Alcohol." He'd never been the kind of drunk who had trouble getting his words out, either. Apparently that only happened when he was writing.

Steve smirked. "Yeah." He sighed and stood up. "You know what? I think we should probably get you home."

"'M not drunk enough yet," he objected.

"Drunk enough for what?"

"Forget."

"You've forgotten why you needed to be drunk?"

"No, I haven't. That's the problem." He looked up blearily. Steve was smiling down at him faintly.

"Okay, we're _definitely_ getting you home. Come on." The blond man hustled him to his feet and towards the door. Sam went along, mainly because it was such a novelty to have somebody actually care.

"So where do you actually live, buddy?" Steve asked when they were out of the door. The night air was cool and bracing, sobering him up. He spun around to point, and almost fell into the road.

Okay, so maybe it hadn't _completely_ sobered him up.

Steve steadied him with a hand to the arm, that made him feel warm in a way that he decided he probably shouldn't analyse. He had a feeling he was doing something stupid here.

But hell, what else was new?

The two of them walked through the streets talking about... nothing he would need to summarise in a briefing memo, ever. Ordinary things, non-political things. When at work had he stopped having conversations like this? Had he ever had conversations like this? Suddenly he couldn't remember.

Then they got to his front door. And when Steve kissed him, he was just a little too drunk to pretend it was entirely unexpected.

A blur of thoughts passed through his mind. Memories of a few fumbled encounters in college, sketchy thoughts about photographers who would really have no reason to be lurking outside his doorway anyway, brief wonderings whether he knew what the hell he was doing... but mostly, mostly, just the thought that it had been a very long time since anyone had kissed him. Or even come close to kissing him.

And then Steve pulled back, and smiled at him questioningly. Sam blinked few times.

"You just kissed me, there," he observed.

"I did, yes."

He hesitated for a moment. "Okay."

Steve waited, and then snorted a brief laugh, hugging his arms across his chest slightly defensively. "You know, at this point, it's traditional to either hit me or kiss me back."

Sam squinted, still a little unsteady on his feet. "Oh, I am way to drunk to try and hit you right now."

Steve smirked. "Well, I guess that makes your decision easier then, doesn't it?"

Sam smiled, and then impulsively kissed him back. Kissing was nice. Kissing was simple.

This could get complicated. He drew back. "You know, there are many, many reasons why this is a terrible idea," he pointed out.

"Really?" asked Steve brightly.

"Oh, yes."

"Can you give me a list?"

He considered for a moment. "Um, possibly later?"

"How much later?"

His hesitation was only minor. "Tomorrow?"

Steve smiled. They went inside.


	18. XVIII

** XVIII **

**SATURDAY:**

She was woken by the insistent ringing of her bedside phone. Despite a strong urge to ram a pillow over it and go back to sleep, it was second nature to lift it to her ear before she was even fully awake. "Josh, what do you want now?"

"Donnatella Moss, is that any kind of a way to answer a phone?"

She jolted immediately into a sitting position. "Mom!"

"Yes, and you're lucky it was me if you're going to answer your telephone in that uncivilised manner. I could have been anybody."

_Not at this time in the morning._ Donna glanced across at the alarm clock. Seven twenty-two. _Seven twenty-two._ On a Saturday, no less. Not only that, but the first Saturday in forever when she wasn't even working in the morning.

"Sorry, mom, I was expecting it to be Josh." Why, _why_, did she always turn into this meek, apologetic person whenever she spoke to her family?

It was funny how her mother could radiate disapproval down a phone line without Donna even needing to see her face. "And that's how you typically greet your employer when he calls you? Really, Donnatella, we raised you better than that. And what on earth would he be doing calling you at home on a Saturday?"

"He needs me to work some mornings, mom," she explained quietly. And wouldn't Josh be amused if he could see her now, valiantly battling to defend the overtime that she tried every trick in the book to wriggle out of?

"Hmph." Her mother was not impressed. "Really, Donna, you work all hours at that dreadful place as it is. The man's a slave driver!"

"It's the White House, mom!" she objected with a slight laugh. "Everybody works those hours."

"I do wish you would come back home and get a proper job."

Donna pulled a face at the phone, but quickly dispelled it in case her mother could somehow hear it in her voice. "Mom, I _have_ a proper job."

"Some job! You work these ridiculous hours, you never get to come home and visit us anymore, and you spend all your time chasing after that dreadful man, answering phones and typing memos."

"I do more than that, mom." It was the truth; so why couldn't she think of a single handy example to prove her point? "And Josh isn't dreadful. He's just..." Okay, finding something about Josh that her mother might approve of wasn't so easy. "He's very busy, and sometimes he's a little bit... eccentric about how he does things." To put it mildly.

"He's scruffy, Donnatella," her mother said primly, in tones that suggested this was somewhere on a par with being an axe-murderer. "You know what I say about scruffy men. They can't be trusted. A man who can't be relied on to care about his own appearance certainly can't be relied on for anything else."

Ah, pearls of wisdom from Mama Moss. Donna couldn't help remembering that the infamous Dr. Freeride had been impeccably neat and well-presented. Of course, she couldn't bring up that point, because her mother was to this day still baffled as to why she'd throw away a perfectly good doctor over something so trifling as a complete erosion of her self-respect.

And now here it came.

"And when are you going to think about settling down? You're wasting away out there in Washington. Why, the only men out there are journalists and politicians, and we all know what _they're_ like."

It wasn't even worth _trying_ to point out that actually, _she_ knew what a great many of them were like, but her mother had no idea. Her mother would only tut over how poor innocent Donna was so easily taken in by their lies and charm, and urge her to come home again.

"Mom, it's not the end of the world that I'm still single. I'm happy being single." It had taken a while to realise it, but it was true. Single wasn't so bad. It sure beat obnoxious insurance lobbyists and nice Republicans who turned out to be _major_ conflicts of interest. "I've got years and _years_ to find somebody, it's not like I'm on a time limit."

"Oh, you say that now, but it's your birthday on Friday, and you're not getting any younger. Why, when your sister Alexia was your age, she had-"

"-Fourteen kids and a husband with an estate car and his own office, yes, I know." How many times had she heard this speech?

"Really, Donnatella, there's no call to be flippant. This is your future I'm talking about."

"Mom, I _have_ a future," she objected desperately. "I have a great life here, and I'm happy."

"Hmm. Well, we'll see about that."

That sounded ominous. "Mom?"

Her mother spoke briskly, as if she'd already made up her mind and it was inconceivable that anyone might want to argue. Rather like she always spoke, in fact. "Since you persist in clinging to this idea that you absolutely can't come home to see us, we shall have to visit you."

Oh no. "_Mom_-"

"No. No, I won't hear a word against it. Donnatella Moss, you _will_ be with us for your birthday, whatever your slave-driver boss has to say about it. Your sister and I will be flying down on Thursday night. I shall expect you to meet us at the airport."

"Listen, mom, you really don't have to..."

But the argument was already over.

* * *

Sam woke up and stretched, sunlight filtering through the blinds to spray across his face.

_What happened last night?_

Oh, yeah. I did something incredibly stupid.

He sat up, and risked a glance at the other side of the bed. It was empty. Nonetheless, he was pretty damn sure the previous night's events were not just the product of an overactive imagination.

He tugged on his shirt and pants, wondering whether he'd been discreetly abandoned in the wake of a one-night stand. And whether he ought to be glad of that. It would make things a lot less awkward, a lot less complicated, a lot less embarrassing for all concerned...

"Hey."

"Hey." Complications be damned, he couldn't help returning the bright and genuine smile the blond man sent his way as he entered the kitchen.

Steve waved a mug at him. "I raided your coffee, by the way."

"I have coffee?"

Steve took a closer look at the contents of the mug. "Well, now you've got me worried." He swirled the drink around. "Coffee doesn't go off, right?"

"No idea."

"I guess I'll just live dangerously." He took a sip and gave Sam a cautious smile. "So... hey. Nice place you've got here."

"Thanks, I don't actually live here," Sam grinned.

He raised an eyebrow. "It's a front for your secret identity?"

"I was gonna say it's the place I sleep when somebody's using my office, but we'll go with that." The joke reminded him of years ago, when Josh had asked him if Laurie knew who he was. Oh, he was the one living dangerously here...

No he wasn't.

_He's not a prostitute. He's just a guy._

A little voice in his head reminded him that there was no 'just' about it when it came to the media, but he ignored it. Why should he care about that? It was all perceptions, smoke and mirrors, like everything else that came with his job.

The silence had stretched on too long, and Steve cleared his throat a little uncomfortably. "So, I, uh, I was wondering. You want to, um, you want to go catch a movie later or something?"

And Sam smiled.

He suddenly realised that this was what had been missing. An outside world, a sense of balance; something, _anything_, that wasn't a part of his job. Something that belonged to _him_, not just to the Deputy Director of Communications.

Screw politics. Screw the media. Screw public perceptions. He was getting himself a life.

"Sure, I'd love to."

* * *

The phone was ringing again. Josh ignored it.

He was spending his Saturday working, but not at the office. He'd given Donna the day off, but he knew that if he went in, she'd insist on showing up and offering her support. And he really couldn't face any support right now.

He'd screwed up. He'd screwed up big time. Oh, he wasn't about to let Tavestock off the hook anytime soon, but the fact was, it was his own complete misjudgement that had turned the Healthcare Bill into a fiasco. The truculent Congressman had 'given in', and he'd just accepted it? Believed that Tavestock's teeth had been pulled when the financial investigation had brought a whiff of scandal and robbed him of his influence?

How could he ever have been so _stupid_?

Leo was sending him to this dumb firework fundraiser thing tonight, but Josh knew deep down that it wasn't really a fitting punishment. Leo was constrained; by the promise he'd made one Christmas, by the ties of his old friendship with Noah Lyman, by the realities of sacking a senior staffer under the eye of the world's media.

After a mistake this big, there was no way he should still have a job.

And it wasn't the first. All the huge, glaringly public, embarrassingly juvenile cock-ups he'd made... how many more before he was a political liability?

And who was to say he wasn't one already? What had happened to the tactical brilliance he was supposed to have had? When was the last time he'd truly pulled off something dazzling, something nobody else could have done?

Maybe he'd burned out. Weren't White House staffers only supposed to last about eighteen months before they collapsed in on themselves and lost the plot? Maybe he'd burned out all that time ago, and the others had been carrying him, covering for him out of some misguided sense of loyalty.

Maybe it was time he seriously considered doing the decent thing and resigning, before they were forced to go back on their promises and kick him out on his ass like he deserved.


	19. XIX

** XIX **

The evening was everything he'd been expecting, and more. More humiliating. More hideously boring. More damaging to the facial muscles that he thought he must have strained making fake smiles at Congressmen he hated.

The worst ones were the ones who came up and oozed insincerity as they commiserated over the loss of the healthcare vote. _So sorry, Josh. Bad luck, eh, buddy? Still, that's the way the cookie crumbles sometimes. Never mind, I'm sure you'll be able to get a new bill through pretty soon._

Nobody here was his friend. Still, in a way, he was almost glad. He was very relieved he hadn't accepted Donna's offer of accompanying him. The last thing he wanted was a witness to this exercise in humiliation.

Every minute he spent felt like one more nail in his political coffin. He knew better than anyone what reputations meant out here in Washington. He was Bartlet's attack dog, the guy who ate recalcitrant Congressmen for breakfast. Except now here he was, pandering to them all in the hope he could suck up enough to stop his incredibly stupid remarks being splashed across the newspapers. While they grinned at him smugly, smirkingly convinced that they held the power to have him fired if they wanted to.

Would Leo fire him, if it came down to it? _Should_ Leo fire him? The questions chased each other through his brain again and again in what wasn't so much a circle as a death spiral.

The outside air should have been a blessed relief compared to the stuffy confines of most conference halls and the like, but he felt overexposed and almost naked in his defencelessness. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run from the mocking crowd. His head was spinning, and there was a painful tightness in his chest. And everywhere he turned there was another Congressman ready to pin him down, remind him over and over again of his own failure, his own stupidity.

And when was this hellish evening ever going to be _over_? They hadn't even started the fireworks yet.

He staggered over to the refreshment stand, desperate for a drink. Not alcohol, though, not tonight - wouldn't Donna be proud of his self-control? Sensitive system aside, his head already felt so dangerously foggy that he didn't dare. All he needed now was to get drunk in front of all these people and embarrass himself further.

And what the hell kind of stupid idea was a firework display? But that was Congress all over; their idea of raising funds always involved lavish spending and monster parties. He was willing to bet none of _them_ had ever fought their way through a campaign run from somebody's front room, stitched together an entire government out of promises and clever schemes. None of them would have the first clue about how to take a hopeless failure and spin it into a political victory.

The question was, did he? Once upon a time, he could have said yes without hesitation, but now he wasn't so sure. Had he lost his touch? Was he, Joshua Lyman, master strategist, already doomed to be a punchline, a political joke who ran around trying to use power and influence he no longer had?

He had no idea. He had no idea of anything much, except for a fairly strong suspicion that he was going to be sick.

Josh took a few deep breaths and sipped his water shakily. This was stupid. He was fine. He'd made dumb mistakes before, and plenty of them had been worse than this. In fact, some of them had been downright-

Oh, right. Confidence-building, yes.

He'd made worse mistakes, and he'd recovered. So things were bad right now; it wasn't _all_ on his shoulders. The entire administration was suffering one hell of a slump, and it was more down to the way they'd scraped through reelection by the skin of their teeth than anything he had or hadn't done.

And this bill had been supposed to be the thing that turned it all around...

Somehow, all this positive thinking wasn't quite working the way it was supposed to.

He took another breath, another sip of water. One step at a time. Not everyone was out to get him. There had to be _some_ genuine sympathy out there. Think. Who here had supported the bill from the start, on its merits more than for any political reason? If he could only spend the rest of the fundraiser in vaguely friendly company, then surely...

Alan Tavestock was coming towards him.

_Kill me now._

It was probably his imagination that the bloated Congressman's beady little eyes had a satanic red glint to them, but the cruel smirk of triumph that creased his lips was real enough. "Ah, Josh, so glad you could join us."

_Die. Die. Choke on your hors-d'oeuvre. Have a heart-attack, already._

Tavestock remained obstinately non-deceased. Josh nearly choked on the blatantly false smile he pasted into place. "Congressman."

"It's good to know the White House cares enough about our cause to send along a player of your magnitude." He heard the emphasis on the final part, but couldn't let himself wince.

_And people say I have no poker face._

"Oh, we always take this kind of thing very seriously," he grated through what bore more resemblance to a grimace of pain than a grin.

"Well it's good to know you value our goodwill so highly," the Congressman smirked, and Josh didn't miss the knives.

Tavestock looked at his fixed rictus for a long moment, and then laughed. He patted Josh companionably on the shoulder, leaning in closer as he did so. "Payback's a bitch, isn't it, Josh?" he said quietly. Pulling back, he smiled again, and said more loudly. "Enjoy the fireworks."

He sauntered away. Josh's fingers tightened on his glass convulsively until it shook and water dribbled over his fingers.

Despite the coolness of the night air he suddenly felt like he was burning. A sour taste rose in the back of his throat, and he stumbled towards the buildings with some vague thought of finding a restroom stall to collapse in, some quiet place where he could just lock himself away for a few moments...

And then the fireworks started.

The explosions were loud, too loud, and the long, drawn out whistle of the rising rocket slashed a sharp line straight through the centre of his nerves, mingling with the-

_-Sirens, sirens everywhere, and the tightness in his chest and why couldn't he breathe, why was it so cold all of a sudden, why couldn't he_ breathe-?

Water slopped out across his fingers and the glass fell to shatter explosively upon the concrete. Josh didn't hear it, any more than he saw the turning heads or the people who began to rush towards him as he sank without thinking to the ground. Suddenly he was three years in the past, stepping out into the dark, and listening to-

Sirens.

* * *

Donna grabbed the phone halfway through the first ring, despite the mouthful of jelly doughnut she'd just taken. "Josh?" she demanded, even though part of her was sure it must be her mother. Josh hadn't called her once all day, and she was more bothered by the isolation than she'd like to admit. But this had to be him, calling her to abruptly reverse his position and demand that she come to join him at the fundraiser.

But it wasn't Josh's voice at the phone; nor was it her mother's.

As she listened to what was being said, the rest of the doughnut dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers and bounced across the bed, oozing its filling like blood across the coverlet.

She didn't even stop to pick it up as she grabbed her jacket and ran for the door.

* * *

Josh wondered what he was supposed to be feeling. Shock, fear, horror, dismay?

Mostly, what he felt was embarrassment.

All these people flocking around him, and he didn't know what to say to them. How to explain what they'd just seen, elaborate that no, he wasn't about to have a heart attack or a stroke, that it was nothing physical at all... just his good old psychological problems.

When he'd come back to himself amidst a crowd of the Democratic party's most influential Congresspeople, it had taken every bit of persuasion that he had to convince them that he didn't need an ambulance. He hadn't wanted them to call anyone at all, but apparently that wasn't an option, so he'd asked them to call Donna.

Hopefully, when she got here she'd reinstate the Rules. If anybody could make these people stop trying to talk to him, it was Donna.

He sat with his head down, trying to pretend no eyes were on him, taking deep, steadying breaths that were shakier than he would have liked. A flashback. A real, honest-to-goodness flashback - though, in truth, that word seemed almost too mild for the way he'd been plunged right the way back into that evening in May. Reliving, not remembering, as Stanley would doubtless have told him.

'We get better,' Stanley had also told him, and unlikely as it had seemed that Christmas, it had been true. He'd learned to listen to music without hearing the sirens anymore - though he would never, he suspected, fully learn to appreciate Yo-Yo Ma - and the nightmares had become less and less frequent. Oh, they still woke him sweating and shaking from time to time, but it didn't matter all that much when there was nobody at his side to be disturbed by it.

But this had been a real flashback, every bit as bad as the ones he'd suffered at the Congressional Christmas party. That time he'd been safely ensconced in his seat with no eyes turned his way, and he'd stumbled out of the door without anybody really noticing anything more than he didn't look so good. This time... This time, he'd fallen to his knees in the middle of a crowd of Democratic Congressmen, and God only knew how long it had been before he started to come back to himself and even realised people were trying to talk to him.

Stress, and fireworks. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ combination. Why had he ever agreed to come?

Oh, wait, yes. Because his own arrogance and short-fused temper had sent him skating entirely too close to the end of his career in the White House.

Well, he reflected as he finally spotted a familiar head of white-blonde hair through the crowd, at least he no longer had to worry about what he'd _said_ being front-page news.

* * *

"I'm resigning tomorrow morning," Josh told her during the cab ride home. Donna ignored him.

"Don't be stupid, Josh," she said matter-of-factly. She ran through her mental checklist. "I called CJ and explained what's happening. I tried to call Sam but he's not home and he's not answering his cell, so I guess you're stuck with me."

"I'm... stuck with you?" he questioned, with the first faint tremor of a smile.

Donna turned to look at him. "I'm not leaving you on your own, Josh," she said seriously.

Josh closed his eyes and sighed. "Donna, I'm not... I'm not gonna put my fist through anything."

"Yeah, well, isn't that what you said last time?"

"I didn't say anything last time!"

"Exactly!" she said fiercely. Josh met her eyes for a moment, then quickly slid his gaze away as if he was fascinated by the car's upholstery. She reached out and quietly smoothed back a disobedient curl of his hair. "Josh..." she said pleadingly. "Why didn't you _say_ something?"

"I didn't, I..." He shrugged angrily. "I didn't even know there was anything to say."

"Fireworks." Donna shook her head. "What was I thinking? I never should've let you go."

Josh gave her an amused look. "What were you thinking? Maybe that you're not actually, you know, the boss of me?"

"Yeah, well, Leo's the boss of you, and I don't know what he was thinking, either," she said sharply.

"Well, maybe he was thinking that he should've already fired my ass, and he can order me to do whatever the hell he wants!" Josh's voice grew too loud in the cramped confines of the back seat.

"Nobody's firing anybody, Josh."

"Well no, he won't need to, because I'm resigning tomorrow morning."

"No you're not. Now pay the nice driver and get out of the car," Donna ordered.

But later, after she'd hustled him into his home and ordered him to bed, Donna couldn't quite suppress a niggling thread of worry. Oh, Leo would never fire Josh, that much she was sure of. But Josh had sounded dead serious about resigning, and she knew that once the inevitable truth of this evening's events came out, nothing on earth was going to persuade him that it wasn't the best course for the administration that he do so.

However, that was tomorrow's worry, and one that felt a long way away as she lay curled up on Josh's couch, straining her ears to catch any muffled sound that might hint at nightmares going on behind the bedroom door.


	20. XX

** XX **

**SUNDAY:**

It was amazing how quickly anger transmuted into crushing guilt.

Josh looked awful. And now that he thought about it, Leo was pretty damn sure he'd looked just as awful yesterday - but he'd put it down to the weight of his stupid mistake.

Which, of course, it had been.

But that itself might not have been enough to throw him headfirst into a PTSD attack. No, it had taken a little bit of icing on the cake to manage that.

Fireworks. It had never even _occurred_ to him that sending Josh to the fundraiser would be anything more than an inconvenience for him. It had been two birds and one stone; a way for Josh to make some sort of amends to pissed Congressional Democrats and, yes, a little bit of punishment too. But he hadn't stopped to think exactly what that punishment would truly entail. And why not? Because he'd just assumed Josh was over that. Better. _Cured._

The thought had a bitter flavour to it. As if he didn't know better than anyone that there were things you never got 'cured' of.

_Fireworks. How the hell could I be so-?_

His thoughts were interrupted as Josh straightened his shoulders, in his own oddly rumpled way coming to attention. "You'll have my resignation on your desk later this morning," he said softly.

The soft tone of voice was the dangerous one. The one that said he'd already found his position, and there wasn't any place to insert the lever to try and shift it.

"No."

"Leo-" His denial was out before Josh finished the sentence, and Josh's rebuttal barely a half second later. They both already knew exactly where each side of this conversation was going, but neither was budging.

"Out of the question," Leo said forcefully. He gave his deputy the glare that said he'd better shut the hell up if he knew what was good for him.

"Leo, it's the best way," Josh said. Still quiet. And somehow that made it far harder to get him to back down than when he was shouting.

"The hell it is!" Leo retorted.

"I have to do this."

"No, you think you ought to, and that's _not_ the same thing." Godammit, what was it with this staff and their lemming-like urge to throw their careers off the top of high scandals 'for the good of the administration'?

Josh looked him in the eye. "I'm not changing my decision."

Leo met his gaze evenly. "And I'm not accepting your decision."

For a second they stared each other down. Then the door to the Oval Office swung open, and they both twisted round.

"Mr. President."

"Mr. President." Well, at least that was one thing they could reach some kind of harmony on.

"Leo. Josh." The president's face grew concerned, and he walked over to lay a hand on Josh's arm. It was a way Jed had about him that Leo had always envied; a kind of ease with himself where he would never think to hesitate over physical contact whenever he deemed it needed.

"Josh, how are you? Are you okay?"

Josh shifted awkward, obviously uncomfortable. "I, I'm fine." He drew back from the president's grip and straightened his collar - considering his general appearance, a fairly transparent, not to mention ineffectual, ploy. He took a breath, and Leo knew what was coming. "Sir, I'll resign before the day is over."

Jed gave the younger man one of his avuncular puzzled frowns, the ones that even Leo, knowing the sharpness of the mind behind them, found hard to believe could be calculated. "And why is that?" he asked gently.

Josh stuttered for a reply. "I, sir, I... the repercussions of-"

"Ah." The president leaned back and smiled knowingly. "Of course. You're worried about public reaction to the revelation that you suffer from a condition which can occasionally recur and incapacitate you, and that you kept it a secret."

Josh hung his head and half-smiled for a moment, acknowledging the sharpness of the remark. Then he straightened up. "Sir, it's not about that, it's, it's more than that," he insisted.

The president's gaze grew more intent. "What do you mean?" he asked quietly.

"Sir, I've become a liability to this administration." Josh closed his eyes briefly as he spoke. "I'm a loose cannon, I fly off the handle too quickly and too easily. And if this last two days has been any indication of anything, it's that my judgement has wavered past the point of political usefulness." He opened his eyes and looked at the president levelly. "Sir, as your political advisor, I am _advising_ you that the best solution here is for me to offer you my resignation."

Despite his long knowledge of Jed Bartlet and the way he worked, Leo's breath caught in his throat as he watched the two men regard each other in silence. The ball was in Jed's court now; Leo only prayed he would know exactly how to hit it where it needed to go.

After a long moment, the president let out a quiet breath. "So, in your judgement, I should accept your resignation because your judgement is flawed?" he asked.

Josh smiled faintly. "Well, sir, you should look at it this way. If my advice _is_ uncompromised, then it's in your best interest to follow it. And if I'm so far gone that I can't even give an accurate reading on my own mental state..."

"Well, that's fascinating logic, but you're forgetting one thing," Jed pointed out.

"What's that, Mr. President?"

"You're full of crap." He folded his arms. "Josh, it's Sunday. You're going to go home, get some rest, and then you're going to come back on Monday and get right back to work. That's a presidential order."

Josh bowed his head in acknowledgement, but as he left the Oval Office Leo caught his eye. A cold glint of determination still lingered, and Leo knew that whatever happened, Joshua Lyman wasn't going to be stopped from giving in without putting up a fight.

* * *

"Josh." Donna scrambled to her feet, all pretence of actually doing any work completely abandoned. He walked straight past her into his office.

"You don't need to be here, Donna, go home."

This, she didn't consider worthy of an answer. She followed him through the doorway. "What do you need me to do?"

He stopped rifling through the papers on his desk, and sighed. "Okay. I need you to go and find Sam."

"And what do I do with him when I've found him?"

Josh offered her a tentative smile. "I want you to ask him if he'd be willing to take you on as his new personal assistant. I know you could get a job practically anywhere in this building, or, you know, anywhere else either, but I thought you'd prefer to-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Let go of them wild horses, Joshua." She stared at him. "They _fired_ you?"

"Donna-"

She wasn't about to listen to any protests about how this was the best thing for the administration. Because, obviously, it wasn't. She felt her temperature beginning to rise. "They fired you? They can't do that! It's, it's, it's blatantly unfair, not to mention hypocritical, and they can't just-" She couldn't even find the words. Donna turned on her heel and started marching in the direction of the Oval Office. "I'm gonna walk right in there and tell them, I'm gonna tell them-"

"Donna!" She stopped walking abruptly as Josh raised his voice into a shout. She slowly turned to face him. "Donna, nobody fired me," he said gently.

"Then what the hell was all that about making me an assistant to Sam?" she demanded loudly. Fragile condition be damned, he had no business shocking the hell out of her like that.

"Nobody fired me," Josh repeated, looking her in the eye. "I'm resigning."

Donna blinked. "You're doing what now?"

"I'm resigning."

She shook her head angrily. "Oh, Josh, for-"

"I'm serious," he said sharply. "I told Leo, I told the president, I'm handing in my resignation."

Good God, he _was_ serious. "And they _accepted_?" Maybe she might just be marching on the Oval Office after all. After everything Josh had done for them...

Josh's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "No. No, they think I'm making a mistake." He took a deep breath. "I'm not making a mistake. I'm right about this, and they know it, and sooner or later they'll see it. And they _will_ accept my resignation. Because it's the right thing to do."

"Josh..." Donna was caught off guard as he stepped up close, invading her personal space, and laid a finger on her lips to quiet her. He gave her a warm, affectionate smile.

"Donna, I know you've got faith in me," he said softly. "More than I'd ever ask you to have. And way, way more than I deserve." He stepped back. "But nobody's changing my mind about this. It's the right thing to do, and I'm going to do it."

He shrugged on his suit jacket, and started to walk away. In the doorway he turned, and looked back at her. "And now I'm going home." He smiled. "Don't try and follow me, okay? Go talk to Sam about that job."

And though her lip trembled as he walked out, she couldn't think of a single thing to say to call him back.


	21. XXI

** XXI **

"Donna!" Sam rushed towards her through the bullpen. "Where's Josh? Is he okay? Is he-?"

"He's fine, Sam. I mean, he's, I-" Donna fumbled for words, and then shook her head. "He's okay," she said finally. "He had a PTSD attack at the thing last night, but he's all right now." She frowned slightly. "I tried to call you and talk to you last night, but your phone was switched off."

"Oh!" Sam jumped guiltily. Jesus, there he'd been, enjoying an evening for the first time in God only knew how many months, and all the while Josh had been... "I was, um, I was at in a movie theatre."

"Oh, right," Donna nodded, and then smiled and gave him a curious look. "Sam, did you have a _date_ last night?"

He was saved from answering _that_ minefield of a question by the sudden arrival of CJ and Toby.

"Donna, where is he?" asked CJ.

"He went home."

"Is he okay?" she demanded worriedly.

"He..." she trailed off. "The PTSD, I mean, yeah." Sam noticed that nobody jumped or looked around furtively at the mention of what had gone unspoken for so long. The cat had pretty much blasted out of the bag at orbital velocity after last night. "The fireworks, I think, and the stress... He had an episode, but he was okay after. I stayed with him last night."

She probably never even stopped to consider how that statement could sound a lot less innocent than it was, but not even CJ so much as twitched. They all remembered the Rules, and how Donna had appointed herself Josh's personal guardian angel during his recovery from the shooting. If anybody could help him, it was Donna.

Sam felt a spike of helplessness twist through his gut, flavoured with just a little guilt. Was this something he ought to have been able to prevent, or at least to predict? Should he have sought Josh out as soon as he'd found out about the vote?

It had never even occurred to him. Not just because he'd been wallowing in his own depression, though it was more than real enough, but because he and Josh didn't... they just didn't really talk anymore. They'd somehow just drifted apart since... hell, he couldn't even pinpoint a time. They'd all drawn into themselves as times grew harder, pulled back their bridges to lick their wounds in peace, and somehow those bridges had never built themselves back.

"Where is he now?" asked CJ.

Donna still seemed a little shaken. "He, went, uh, Leo sent him home. To get some rest. And, um, stop trying to resign."

"He was talking about quitting?" Sam demanded. He was almost taken aback by how shocked that idea made him, considering how close he'd been skating to wanting to do the same. But Josh... Josh lived for politics. He needed to bury himself in it in the exact way Sam had only just realised was poison to his own system.

"He's not resigning," said Toby brusquely, neither question or denial but a statement of how the future was going to be in the universe according to Toby. Nobody in the room was fooled into believing he was unconcerned.

"That's what Leo said," Donna nodded.

"But he's determined to be a martyr?" CJ surmised. She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, I swear I don't know what I'm going to do with you boys some days." She turned to Toby and Sam. "The press are gonna need a statement. There's no way this isn't gonna be a story, so let's make sure they're at least printing something approaching the truth. The last thing we need is somebody getting inventive."

Sam looked between Toby and CJ warily. "Can we say 'post-traumatic stress'?"

CJ winced. "We've gotta say something."

Toby nodded. "The press have had all last night to think about it. Chances are, somebody's already connected the dots."

"What happens to Josh?" Donna demanded as she listened to them debate.

"They're gonna draw parallels," CJ said, and she didn't need to nod towards the Oval Office to indicate with whom. Toby shrugged.

"Let them. The American public showed they were willing to re-elect him."

"Big difference between the president and the Deputy Chief of Staff, Toby."

Sam leaned forward. "We can't run away from the shooting, so we have to put it front and centre," he said forcefully. "Remind them how and why he got injured in the first place."

Toby shot him a slightly surprised look, as if startled to see him actually ready to throw himself into the discussion. He gave a brisk nod. "He was shot in the line of duty in somebody else's hate crime, and he's still here. Let's remind the public of that."

"Josh is gonna hate that," Donna observed.

"That would be his problem," Toby shrugged indifferently. He glanced at his deputy. "Come on, Sam."

Sam followed. And maybe it was the weight lifted off his shoulders by the promise of a life away from the office, or the righteous indignation of knowing Josh would be ripped apart for nothing more than having the misfortune to be the victim of a crime three years ago... maybe it was both, he didn't know. He only knew that somehow, his fire felt like it was coming back, and the words were once again bubbling away in the back of his brain.

He was ready to write.

* * *

"Hey, Charlie."

"Hey, Zoey." Charlie was powerless to prevent the grin that split his face as he settled into the seat opposite his girlfriend - no, he corrected himself, his fiancée. It had been way too long since their last attempt at a romantic dinner, and even that had been curtailed when a last-minute change to the president's schedule had sent him dashing back to the White House.

Zoey smiled at him over the menu, and surreptitiously touched her hand to her chest, where only the slightest wrinkle in the material of her blouse hinted at the ring that lay beneath. Charlie silently echoed the gesture, and wished again that he could wear his own ring on his finger instead of a chain, so the whole world could see he was a taken man.

Unfortunately, there was a tiny tiny chance that the president _might_ suspect something if he came into work wearing an engagement ring.

After all, they hadn't given him that Nobel Prize for nothing.

"Did you speak to Josh?" Zoey asked after they'd ordered, smile fading a little.

"I saw him briefly this morning." Not that there had been any speaking involved. "Your father sent him home early to get some rest."

"Good. I hope he's okay." She bit her lip, and Charlie knew she was thinking again of Josh's shooting, and how she felt she'd played a part in it. He'd tell her she was crazy to feel guilty, except she'd only turn the tables and send the same right back at him.

No matter how many people might tell him he couldn't blame himself for the actions of a few crazy teenage Neo-Nazis, in some part of himself Charlie still did. But he'd found some perspective, or at least the ability to live with himself, in one simple fact; he wasn't prepared to give up Zoey.

Oh, he wasn't about to be stupid, and risk his, her, or the president's life by a reckless act like making their engagement public knowledge... but nothing, and no one, was going to take Zoey Bartlet away from him.

It had been hard getting even this far; the inevitable complications of their schedules and their places and Zoey's family ties. Not to mention the prickly temper Zoey had inherited in healthy doses from both parents, and his own frustration when she sometimes couldn't seem to see the trouble he had juggling too many commitments. Things were seldom smooth... but even when they were bad, they felt right. They fought and they argued enough for any couple, but there was never a time when they felt like they were out of love with each other.

It had been purely spur-of-the-moment to declare his intention to be a part of Zoey's life forever, but he meant every word. Whenever he pictured his future, she was there... and, though he probably wouldn't have admitted it to the president, it was always Jed and Abbey Bartlet that he thought of when he tried to imagine how he and Zoey would be in thirty years time.

The chance of having a love like that... That wasn't something you walked away from, no matter how difficult the road might be.

He'd been silent too long, and Zoey reached across to playfully prod him with her fork. "Hey. What're you thinking about?"

"You," he said truthfully, and she gave him a smile that made the room feel about ten degrees warmer.

So what if they couldn't announce their engagement? They still had each other, and right now that felt like more than enough.

* * *

Sam let himself into the apartment and dropped into his chair, smiling at the ceiling. Was it wrong for him to feel so... contented... knowing that Josh must be going through hell? Possibly, but the feeling had been missing for so long he found it hard to feel any guilt for it.

In the past few months he'd forgotten this, and the realisation frightened him. He'd lost this feeling of... rightness, satisfaction, of knowing that you'd done a good thing, and that even if you were bone weary it was the tiredness of the just.

Today, there had been no ambiguity, no lies, no politicking; only the truth. In a way, it felt like a chance to step back in time, a way to rerun the MS revelation how he would have chosen to have done it.

He'd crafted a statement even Toby had to admit sizzled. Confronting the issue of post-traumatic stress without running away from it, seeking to hide it, or trying to pretend it was less than it was. Instead of sniping back at those who would use the revelation for political gain, it focused on Josh himself; who he was, what he'd been through, and what it had taken for him to overcome the struggles he had.

Josh, he was positive, would absolutely hate it. He didn't want to be made a hero for things he considered flaws in himself, and he'd rather be a martyr than see his friends close ranks and go into battle for him.

Well, Sam wasn't about to let that happen.

The lines of communication between him and Josh, he realised, had been closed for far too long. He'd had a minor epiphany of sorts - if he waited around for Josh to have one of his own, he could be in for a long, long wait.

He picked up the phone, and called Josh's number. It was still on speed-dial; of course it was. Their friendship had never been terminated, it had just... faded. Withered away, because neither of them had taken the time to notice that they weren't tending to it.

The phone on the other end rang. And rang. And rang.

He tried twice more, and then he tried Josh's cell. It was switched off. Josh didn't want to talk.

For a moment he was tempted to just grab his coat and head on over to Josh's, but something held him back. This gap between them had been growing for too long, and he was horribly afraid that if he tried to step across it now, he'd find he was unable to. He might come face to face with the best friend he barely seemed to talk to anymore, and find he had nothing to say.

Suddenly feeling a good deal less contented, Sam stared at the silent phone, undecided. His gaze was drawn to the number scrawled on the pad beside it, in a neat, clean hand that was not his own.

It would be a bad idea to call.

It would be a very bad idea to call.

He should break this all off now, now while it was still safe and nobody had a clue anything had gone on. They had more than enough on their plates with Josh and everything else, without him adding to the trouble. This was just about the worst time in the world to start cooking up a story which every political hack in Washington would love to get their hands on.

He listed reason upon reason in his head why he shouldn't call. It was quite a convincing list.

While he was making it, his hand snaked out of its own accord and dialled the number.

"Hello, Steve? It's Sam."


	22. XXII

** XXII **

**MONDAY:**

There were days, CJ reflected, when it was pretty damn difficult to muster any motivation to go through the morning papers. She envied all those people who read the papers for their own entertainment, and could happily discard them, shred them, or throw them across the room when they read something not to their liking.

Only the third option there was available to her, but she was making good use of it. Of course, having to go and pick them up again spoiled the effect somewhat, but at least it helped break the monotony.

The headlines were all very much the same. 'Senior Staffer Collapses at Charity Benefit' being just about the least sensational. And apparently they'd all snagged the same Congressman to give them an overdramatic description of how Josh had 'slipped into catatonia, eyes darting madly and hands clasped to his chest'. She was very close to attempting suicide by impact with very large pile of newspapers when an article that was different from the rest jumped out at her.

__

THREE YEARS ON: A SURVIVOR'S TALE

May, 2000; Rosslyn, Virginia. Two young men open fire on a crowd, seeking to perpetrate a hate crime against a young man whose crime was in loving the president's daughter. For most of us, it was a night of confusion and excitement, glued to our TVs as we waited to hear the condition of our country's president. For Joshua Lyman, it was a struggle to survive and a nightmare that will never be over.

A week ago, I could never have understood what he went through.

A week ago, I'd never faced the barrel of a gun.

CJ read the rest of the article in rising delight and disbelief. Then she went across the building and showed it to Leo.

He read through it slowly, a smile beginning to dawn across his face as he progressed. When he looked up, his face was glowing. "This is good, CJ. It's really good."

"It is," she agreed, beaming back. This was what they'd been hoping, praying to put across, the spin they'd needed for the story... the spin they'd certainly never expected a member of the press to come up with on their own.

"Richard R. Maskey," Leo read aloud, and smiled.

"Guess having reporters get shot is better than we thought," CJ observed.

"Altruistic journalism... who'd've guessed?"

"Bet you're not regretting giving him that exclusive now," she smiled.

"Hell, let's give him another one!" Leo grew more serious. "Someone's gonna have to talk to Josh eventually. This is our guy. This is definitely our guy."

"Yeah." CJ frowned. "Where is Josh? Is he here?"

"Nah." Leo didn't sound concerned. "I left a message on his machine, told him to take some time if he needed it."

CJ blinked. "And he listened?"

Leo shrugged and smiled. "Hell, he's probably got Donna on his case again. He's going _nowhere_ until she says so."

* * *

"Have you spoken to Josh?"

Donna's demands grew more frantic with every person she asked. He hadn't answered or returned any of her calls since the previous evening; and even then, she'd only got a two line message on her machine which said "Donna, I'm only calling because I know that otherwise you'll call out the National Guard. I'm fine, don't come over."

Of course, her immediate instinct was to head on over. She'd fought it down only with the knowledge that arguing with an irrational Josh would get her nowhere. If he was enough in control of himself to know to send her even such an abrupt message, then he probably wasn't going to do anything too drastic. It was safe to leave him to stew just long enough to realise that he really _didn't_ want to be alone as much as he thought he did.

Or that had been the theory, anyway. Only now it was the following morning, he _still_ wasn't picking up the phone, and she'd just discovered that terse message on her machine was the only communication _anybody_ had got out of him since he'd left the office the previous day.

Sam's calls had gone ignored. CJ's calls had gone ignored. Leo had left a message but received no reply. Toby hadn't called, but had strategically nudged several people into doing it for him, without admitting he was doing so. None of them had achieved any success either.

After a circuit of the office that grew steadily more panic-stricken, she returned to Leo's office. "Leo, nobody's heard from him at all this morning," she said urgently.

Leo gave her an understanding smile. "Donna, he's fine. You know what he's like."

She did, but that didn't help disperse the butterflies that were fluttering in her gut. "Leo-"

"It's really nothing to be concerned about, Donna," he said firmly. Then he grinned. "But yes, you have my permission to go kick him out of bed and bawl him out for not answering his phone when we're all worried about him."

Donna couldn't help smiling back. "Thank you."

* * *

The sound of her knock echoed hollowly in the empty hallways. The people who lived in this apartment building were not the kind to still be home beyond nine o'clock on a Monday morning. A nest of government wage-slaves, married to their jobs; the perfect place for Joshua Lyman.

Donna knocked again, but there was still no answer.

She hesitated, fingering the key in her pocket. She and Josh had never discussed giving her the spare key. It had just found its way into her purse when she was keeping in an eye on him after the shooting, and when that was no longer necessary it had simply stayed there. Though both of them knew she still had it, she had never made a move to return it, and Josh had never asked for it back.

It was just accepted that she had the key; however, the same token of trust that allowed her to keep it forbade her from using it. It wasn't her place to invade Josh's home without his say-so. If he wasn't answering the door, it probably meant he wasn't home, and she should turn around and go. Except...

It wasn't a mental image that haunted her, just a sound. The sound of shattering glass.

She unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

Should it be any surprise to her that the place smelled musty? Of course not, for it belonged to Josh Lyman, and how often was he home? For all his grandiose claims of being an outdoorsman, she doubted it occurred to him to ever open a window.

The phantom crash of glass sounded once again inside her head, and before her courage could fail her Donna headed into the bedroom.

What she saw came a far and distant second to an unconscious and bleeding Josh Lyman, but it was still pretty troubling. The closet and several drawers stood open and empty. The photographs Josh kept on his bedside table were gone. She ducked to look under the bed.

Yes, his suitcase was gone as well.

"Miss?"

She jumped out of her skin, and whipped around. The nervous-looking little man who'd come up behind her held his hands up apologetically.

"Sorry, Miss, didn't mean to startle you." He cleared his throat hesitantly. "Um, are you Donnatella Moss, by any chance?"

She blinked at him, heart still hammering. "I, uh, yes, I am."

"Thought so. Mr. Lyman gave, um, quite a good description." He offered her a tentative smile, and then fumbled in his jacket pocket. "He said you'd probably be along this morning, and that I should give you this." He proffered a crumpled envelope, and she took it automatically. Her name was written on it in Josh's handwriting.

The super hesitated. "Also he said... could you give me his key?"

"Oh!" She pulled it out of her pocket. "Oh, yes, of course."

But as she passed it over and saw his hand close around it, something in her stomach dropped. She looked down at the envelope she was holding with a sick sense of dread.

Something was very wrong here.

* * *

She opened the envelope out in her car. Inside it was another, smaller envelope, and a handwritten letter. The second envelope was addressed to Leo. The letter was addressed to her.

__

Donna,

I knew you wouldn't go long without checking up on me. I'm sorry to do this through a letter, but I knew you wouldn't let me do it any other way.

I know nobody wants me to resign. It's flattering, but it's a mistake. A big mistake. You think you're being loyal, but in fact you're being blind. I've become a liability to this administration, and no amount of loyalty can cover the fact that it's time to let me go.

But Leo won't do it, and neither will the president. They won't fire me, and they won't let me resign. They care too much, and there's a place for charity, but politics isn't it.

Therefore, in my last act as a policy advisor to the president, I'm making a political decision. I'm removing myself from the equation. If nobody else is prepared to do it, then it's up to me to make the break. So I'm leaving. In fact, if you're reading this letter, then I've already left. And I'm not coming back.

The letter to Leo is my formal resignation. Tell him I apologise for not giving him notice, but this is the best way in everyone's book. I'm going to miss everybody, but this is definitely for the best.

I wanted to leave a goodbye message, but I know you would have tried to talk me out of it. You might even have succeeded, and I couldn't let that happen. So I left.

I promise to get back in contact, but not soon. I know it's going to take some time and some distance before you all come around to my way of thinking. But I know you will eventually, because I know I'm right.

Goodbye,

Josh

Donna reread the letter twice, then let it crumple in her hands as she leaned back into the driver's seat. The small envelope bearing Leo's name sat like a ticking timebomb on the dashboard.

She sat staring at it for a long, long time.

**To Be Continued**


End file.
